


Finite State

by Scarlet_Ribbons



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: And by that I mean lowkey non-canon compliant, Blackmail, Deadpool doesn't know Spider-Man's identity, Deadpool thought boxes (mentioned), First Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Peter, Like an atrocious amount of cliffhangers really, M/M, Major Character Death (but it's Deadpool), Minor Character Death, My First Work in This Fandom, Panic, Panic Attacks, Peter is just kind of a mess, Peter is sassy but also precious, Playing with Canon, Sensory Overload, Stalking (not by Deadpool), Superhuman hearing, Texting, Violence, and he's determined to make things difficult (accidentally), blowjob, but when is he not, injuries, mentions of food insecurity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-07-17 18:06:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarlet_Ribbons/pseuds/Scarlet_Ribbons
Summary: “Hiya, Peter,” Deadpool is standing there in all his red and black glory, sounding deceptively cheerful. All too cheerful, in fact, for a gun resting against one muscular thigh and a hand reaching back to, no doubt, grab a katana. “Peter Parker,” Deadpool continues, saying his name like he wants to bite into it. It’s actually kind of hot. God. Focus, Peter. Is Deadpool seriously going to try to kill him now?All too late, Peter realizes that Spider-Man never responded to Deadpool’s messages.--When he's blackmailed by, of all people, a weird work acquaintance who needs Spider-Man gone for obviously illegal purposes, Peter is forced to hang up the suit- at least temporarily -until he can resolve the situation. Unfortunately, things start to get sticky when Deadpool, who Spider-Man's been on-again off-again with (okay, yeah, lowkey messing around with), crashes into Peter's life and demands the photographer help him figure out what's got his favorite webhead so spooked.Peter's life is really weird.





	1. Bomb? Dropped.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so hi! I'm really new to this, and I'm just writing based on what I know. These two dorks are really just the cutest, and I couldn't help but finally give in. Please let me know if there are any glaring mistakes; like I said, I'm really new. Thank you! I hope you enjoy!

It's really remarkable how it all comes about. His Spidey-sense doesn't even flare, that's how little of a threat this guy, Greg, is. Greasy, eau de McDonald's Wrappers constantly wafting off of the two shirts he constantly wears, kinda neckbeardy, if Peter's being honest- The guy is almost negative on his danger scale.

"Hey, Peter.  _OrshouldIsaySpider-Man?"_ Greg rushes out gleefully, and even his execution of the secret that could potentially ruin Peter's  _life_ is done poorly. This guy sucks. At  _everything_. 

Anyway.

Peter just stares at him, flabbergasted. "Wh..." He jerks into motion after a solid minute of shock, trying to figure out how  _Greg_ , the same guy who poured milk into the K-cup holder of their Keurig machine, figured out something that Peter had hidden  _so well_ , it took the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist sitting smugly in Stark Tower _ages_ to figure out who he was. And that guy was, like, so many leagues away from Greg that Jules Verne was trying to rise from the grave to write a sequel. 

So.

Greg.

Peter's heart seizes for a moment, and he looks around, making sure nobody heard Greg, before gripping the other's upper arm and hauling him into a tiny, mostly-empty cubicle. "Dude, are you crazy? Don't just accuse someone of crap with Jameson like two doors down. He might actually believe it!" 

Greg gives him an unimpressed look, followed up with a wretched, shit-eating grin. Heck. "It's on video, Parker," he leers, unlocking his phone. "From that one time you webbed into an alley? And changed, and thought no one was looking?" He hesitates. “And before you think of taking my phone and destroying it, I already moved it to my computer," he says triumphantly. 

_Heck_. 

Peter clears his throat. "What do you want, Greg." he says, low and cold, because if Greg didn't want something, he would have already exposed Peter to, y'know, the newspaper they both work for. "Is it money? Because I hate to break it to you, because I wouldn't be working at this crapshoot if I had it. And no matter what people think, I don't take charity from Iron Man." Something in his tone must scare even the greasiest of scumbags (that's Greg, by the way), because he flinches before huffing. He's clearly torn between trying to get more of a reaction from Peter and blurting out what he wants.

"I want you to stop."

Short-circuit. Peter blinks. " _What_ _?"_

"I want you to stop being Spider-Man." Greg must notice Peter's extended, murderous silence, because he quickly babbles, "just for. A couple months." Now he just looks shifty, and Peter feels ice cold dread well in his stomach. Of  _course_ Greg is an actual  _villain_ , villain. Imagine that. Neckbeardy Greg, who Peter and the other colleagues have to physically, constantly keep from being creepy all the time, whose sense of social cues is practically nonexistent, is smart enough to keep Spider-Man from getting involved in his operations through blackmail. Peter's not sure whether to be impressed or horrified.

"If you're going to do something illegal," Peter says, flat and slow, "I don't need to be Spider-Man in order to stop you. I can report you to the cops. Right now."

"Is that a threat?" Greg splutters, looking cowed. When Peter doesn't answer (purely in a desperation to get Greg to spill more information), he, sure enough, barrels on: "Because, just so you know, I took precautions." He clears his throat. "As in. I've set up a computer program, y'know? And. If I don't enter a password every day at a certain time, it'll send the video to all the major news outlets. And that would suck, wouldn't it?" he raises his eyebrows, trying to look intimidating. He's got balls. 

Peter tries not to panic. Greg's  _forcing_ him to turn a blind eye to his crimes... And Peter has no idea what Greg could be planning. He's just the type of Nice Guy™ to have a vendetta against women in general, or guys who are better off than he he is. What if he's planning to kill people? 

For now, he has to keep Greg silent, until he figures out what to do. 

"Okay," Peter says, trying not to sound too ambivalent. He's gotta make Greg believe he's giving up easily, that he's scared, and of course, Greg looks pleased, and it pisses Peter off to even  _look_ at him, but. Here he is. "Fine. I'll... Have Spider-Man look the other way." 

"No." Greg folds his arms. "I, er. We- I mean. I have some plans. I don't want Spider-Man getting involved at all. I want you to take a break, Parker." He stares meaningfully at Peter. "I mean it." 

So his wording hadn't tricked Greg. Jesus, is this guy a genius? That  _definitely_ doesn't excuse his awful behavior. Also, Peter's now convinced that Greg is part of some terrorist group or something, and his Spidey-sense is pretty clear on what it thinks, too. 

"Fine," he says, short and forceful. "I'll ... Put him away."

"I have eyes all over the city, Parker." Greg swallows, but manages to hold his ground. "I want Spider-Man gone." 

Peter's about to respond, but a chime from his phone momentarily distracts him.

**From: 'pool**

**hey hey hey my sweet sticky spandexy spidey. home from malta and down a couple toes. u game for taco tuesday?**

It's Friday. Despite his foreboding panic, Peter has to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at how ridiculous Wade is. This is a Very Serious Situation™, he doesn't have time for Deadpool's antics. Well. That’s a lie, he kinda loves all of Wade’s bullshit, but he’s got to get a handle on Greg.

He shoves his phone into his pocket and levels a glare at Greg. His brain’s working overtime right now, and he’s torn between trailing Greg and just demolishing his computer and threatening him, but there’s the matter of that password thing. Fuck.

Either way, he can’t deal with it right this minute, so he just shakes his head and leaves the cubicle. He’s gotta find a way to get rid of that freaking video, but until then, he’s got to stash his favorite webhead away.

**To: ‘pool**

**sorry Wade, I’m tired tonight. Think we can reschedule?**

**I missed you.**

So. He’s kind of in a relationship with the merc, but in a we-don’t-talk-about-it-but-we’re-lowkey-exclusive way. They’ve only ever slept together in masks while Peter works the courage up to tell Wade who he actually is. Wade’s working up the courage to take his mask off completely. They’re doing okay, respecting each other’s privacy, goofing off in Wade’s apartment to protect Peter’s secret and religiously avoiding the L-word. So yeah, it’s nice. Wade is almost ridiculously cute. Peter feels warmth start at the back of his neck and frisson all the way down to his toes as he feels his phone buzz.

**From: ‘pool**

**Are you hurt? You’re okay, right? I need to shish-kebab someone?**

**I can do that. Know ur not crazy bout the killing ppl thing, bb webs, but what you don’t know won’t hurt you maybe? i’ll make pancakes if u come over**

**To: ‘pool**

**Not hurt, just tired. Kinda wanna be alone even though pancakes sound good. I’ll miss you tonight. Just have some stuff to take care of. No killing.**

**From: ‘pool**

**i believe you but yellow doesn’t. actually white doesn’t either. white says you’re keeping something important from us that’ll come back to bite u in ur pretty pert butt for Sacrifical Hero Reasons and Plot Development but that wouldn’t be the case, now would it, webs, babe?**

Peter’s not sure what most of that means, but he’s, as usual, taken aback by Wade’s intuition. It always leaves him a little breathless. Also. It’s hot. But he can’t cave, because who knows who Greg’s hired to watch him? 

**To: ‘pool**

**Nope. Just blah tonight.**

**From: ‘pool**

**sleep well, my sweet summer spidey**

**To: ‘pool**

**I will.**

—

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn't.  _Greg_ knows his secret.  _Greg_! How did that even happen? He fruitlessly tosses and turns nearly all day, forlornly wishing he could patrol as some sort of pre-sleep therapeutic session. But. Whoever Greg was in kahoots with could be in the city, and who knew what would happen if one of them caught Spider-Man swinging around? 

He  _should_ just go and patrol anyway, Greg be damned. But dread lines his stomach like ice when he thinks about his identity being revealed. He imagines Aunt May and his friends being targeted by whoever Greg is working with, and his heart sinks into his stomach. He  _can't_. This is the worst.

An hour and a half of fidgeting later, he lifts his head to look at his alarm clock, which glows a baleful and unrepentant 3:29, and groans, groping for his phone on the nightstand. 

**To: 'pool**

**this sucks.**

**From: 'pool**

**now, webs, u know i hate liars. thought u were going to sleep?**

Peter smiles, despite himself.

**To: 'pool**

**can't stop thinking. my head is full of things.**

**From: 'pool**

**ain't anyone relating more than i am, darlin' spidey.**

There's a shift in mood, all of a sudden. Peter isn't sure how he knows, but he feels it, like a crackle in the air. He has no idea why, or how, or when he started reacting like this, but he's suddenly aroused. Greg and his looming identity concerns seem to wane to the background of his mind. 

**From: 'pool**

**jerking off usually tires me out. shuts w + y up too. usually. they're disgusted when they see my dick. can't blame them, it looks like a flesh-colored radioactive zucchini.**

Peter's typing before he even realizes it.

**To: 'pool**

**the difference between your dick and a flesh-colored radioactive zucchini is that I actually want one of those inside me.**

Silence, for a moment.

**From: 'pool**

**them's fighting words, spider-man.**

Peter shivers visibly, blushing as he ducks underneath his pillow. He's not sure why he's so flustered- this is his apartment, so it's not like anyone can barge in and see him, but there's something in all of this that leaves him feeling inexplicably dirty. But. In a warm, not-entirely-unpleasant way. 

They haven't had sex; mostly, they've just gotten handsy with each other. Peter isn't sure why, but he's almost stupid sensitive, and sometimes all it takes is Wade nipping at the tendons of his neck or at his inner thigh, and he comes like he's fourteen again and sprouting hard-ons left and right. Also. Wade's dirty talk is  _absurdly_ hot, and Peter's pretty sure that most of the process is him just squirming, whining, and blushing in mortification as Wade talks him off.  

**From: 'pool**

**you've had five minutes to take back what you said and now you're in the dangAAAAH ZOOOOONE, spidey. honey, srsly. whatchu doing. you definitely do not want my extremely unappealing reproductive organs anywhere near your incredibly cute ass. it looks like freddie kreuger fucked a pickle and had a weirdly sentient lovechild with it. My dick, I mean. Not ur ass. Ur ass is perfect.**

**To: 'pool**

**Re: 'you've had five minutes to take back what you said'**

**I'm not taking it back, wade.**

**From: 'pool**

**I**

**From: 'pool**

**go to sleep, spidey.**

Disappointed, Peter tries to keep his eyes open in case Deadpool texts again, but once the warm rush of arousal wanes, he finds that he can't seem to stay awake. 

\--

Two things hit him when he wakes up to sunlight streaming into his window:  _oh my GOD Greg knows mY IDENTITY_  and  _Deadpool didn't text me._

The latter, though less important, actually makes him feel a little worse for a second. He has no idea what he might have said wrong, or what could have gotten Deadpool that riled up about the idea of having sex with him, but he doesn't have enough time to think about it before his phone lights up. 

Unfortunately, it's not Deadpool. 

F **rom: local asshole**

**Hey parker, remember our deal.**

**To: local asshole**

**It's not a deal, Greg. It's blackmail. And somehow, you're definitely going to end up regretting it.**

**From: local asshole**

**whatever parker**

After that scintillating conversation, Peter finds that the day drags on even more than usual. He manages to avoid Greg leering at him all day at the office, but then realizes, when he has nothing to give Jameson, that he has a new problem.

"Greg," he hisses at the other, reluctantly, as the other walks by. "What the heck am I supposed to do when I have to take pictures? This is my job, man. I need pictures of Spider-Man." 

Greg looks like he actually didn't think about this problem, which doesn't even mildly surprise Peter. Greg has never ever thought things through, which is why he's an absolute failure. But he digresses. 

"I- Can't you just-" Greg thinks, which is a stressful process for Peter to even watch. "Okay. Fine. Just take them ... away from... From crime," he finishes lamely. "And you can't do it every day, so make sure you take enough for a while when you do it," he says, tilting his chin upward as if he's proud of how much authority he has in this situation. Peter hates this guy.

“Fine.” He hisses, unfortunately grateful for this tiny bit of reprieve. He has no idea what he’ll do if he’s fired from this job; between work, online classes, and Spider-Man, he  _really_ needs the cash. Not only for his apartment, but for Aunt May’s place, too. As of right now, the only thing carrying him through his online classes is the fact that it’s mostly catch up right now. 

He rubs his eyes as his phone buzzes, and a momentary, relieved calm sweeps over him.

**From: ‘pool**

**u functioning, baby boy?**

**To: ‘pool**

**No.**

**From: ‘pool**

**come over tonight? i’ll make pancakes.**

Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s ... not ready to reveal who he is just yet, especially now that Greg is playing mind games with him; he’s worried that he can’t handle the stress of giving his identity away when he feels like he’s being watched. On top of that, whoever Greg has on the field might already know about his fling with Deadpool... Heck. What if Greg is in kahoots, with, like, HYDRA? He wouldn’t be surprised if a small fry like Greg was just a pawn in a bigger game, only to be killed and thrown aside once he’s no longer significant? Peter has to get to the bottom of this soon, or he’s going to have an aneurysm.

But first, Wade.

**To: ‘pool**

**Sorry DP. Kinda feeling a bit sick. Rain check again?**

It takes a minute for a response, this time.

**From: ‘pool**

**that’s cuz u don’t sleep, honey, and instead choose to banter with a shriveled up avocado-man. get urself some zquil, i’ll see u tomorrow**

It’s not like he’s not appreciative of Deadpool respecting his boundaries, but he halfheartedly wishes the other would barge into his room and cuddle with him. Wade is, unsurprisingly, an  _awesome_ cuddler. Unsurprisingly, because he’s very muscly, and his biceps are really firm, and his thighs are always so warm and solid against the back of Peter’s. It’s crazy nice. And Peter  _wants_. 

**To: ‘pool**

**One, you’re not a shriveled avocado man, two, things like zquil don’t really work on me for some reason, and three, I’m sorry for backing out again. I really want pancakes.**

**From: ‘pool**

**webs. are you okay?**

The sudden intensity of the message makes Peter hesitate, and his heart drops again. He feels like he’s complicating everything so much, but he’s too worried about whatever pies Greg has his grubby fingers in, and he just ... can’t. God, he’s stressed. 

Before he can respond to Deadpool, though, Jameson is back on him for not taking pictures, and Greg is finding it all very funny, and Peter has to use his lunch break to take as many (admittedly not great) pictures of Spider-Man as he can. He  _would_  have taken them that night, but he’s got almost endless homework from his classes, and he’s just. Stressed. Yeah. Plus, he somehow, as Peter Parker, he has to figure out what Greg is up to.

He gets so occupied with finishing his work that he forgets to respond to Deadpool; in fact, before he even realizes it, it’s two in the morning and he’s back on his bullshit, too strung up to fall asleep. 

He gets his camera and climbs the stairs of the fire escape, looking around before stealthily slipping into his suit. Greg said he could take pictures, but ... And now that he thinks about it, if it’s HYDRA that Greg’s involved with, then why wouldn’t they have just kidnapped him by now? No, HYDRA wouldn’t dangle blackmail over him like this; they’d just kidnap him, or kidnap Aunt May... anyway, they’d have done what they set out to do already. They’re proactive like that. The thought brings him a little bit of relief.

He’s just finished taking a set of better pictures and is slipping out of suit when his Spidey sense rings loud and clear in the back of his head. He grips his camera close, protectively, glancing around discretely, his back stumbling back against the door to the rooftop so he can’t be snuck up on.

“That definitely wasn’t wise, Parker,” the voice curls, low and dark, from the shadows. For some reason, Peter can’t figure out where the voice is coming from, but it’s definitely not Greg. No. This must be Greg’s guard dog, keeping an eye on him... and this guy knows where he lives and  _everything._ Heck. “Fortunately for you, you kept away from the city like a good boy. I would hate for your secret to be revealed.”

Peter looks around the dark, shadowed rooftop discretely, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from. It sends chills down his spine, not knowing who he’s up against. Whoever this guy is, he’s way more dangerous than Greg, and he’s definitely just using Greg, and he’ll definitely put Greg down when he’s done with him. 

He takes a deep breath. “Who are you?”

“Me? Just a watchman.” The voice’s direction moves, and Peter tries to follow. “But don’t you worry about that. You focus on keeping Spider-Man away ... from New York City  _and_ Deadpool.”

Peter’s heart plummets into his stomach. He opens his mouth to respond, but he already knows the guy is gone. This... this is  _definitely_ not good. Who knows what they’ll do if he tries to contact Deadpool as Spider-Man? 

For now, he realizes two important things: Peter Parker needs to keep his distance from Aunt May, to protect her and make it seem as if she’s not as important to him as she actually is, and Spider-Man needs to keep his distance from Deadpool.

—

His all-star plan lasts about two days.

He’s just gotten off a particularly craptastic day at work; Greg is all but breathing down his neck, even more so than usual, and Jameson is livid from the lack of stunning action shots that Peter usually provides. He’s been hearing whispers around, too- the beginnings of concern, of wonder as to where Spider-Man has been the last couple days. It sickens him.

He’s just gotten home, and it’s ridiculously late when he finally heats up some chicken noodle soup. He has no doubt it’s going to be another endless night, but he’s looking forward to at least no more interruptions... when his door nearly cracks in two.

“What the-“ Peter blurts out, reflexes working faster than his brain can keep up, but he doesn’t even have time to get into a defensive position before-

“Hiya, Peter,” Deadpool is standing there in all his red and black glory, sounding deceptively cheerful. All too cheerful, in fact, for a gun resting against one muscular thigh and a hand reaching back to, no doubt, grab a katana. “Peter Parker,” Deadpool continues, saying his name like he wants to bite into it. It’s actually kind of hot.  _God. Focus, Peter._ Is Deadpool seriously going to try to kill him  _now?_ All too late, Peter realizes that Spider-Man never responded to Deadpool’s messages.

“Peter.” Deadpool repeats for the third time, but it’s markedly different this time. His voice has gone low and calm, a well of ice rippling around Peter’s name as he moves closer. For being generally clumsy and kind of accident prone when he’s not being a mercenary, Deadpool never fails to impress Peter- and, by extension, Spider-Man -with the nonchalant grace he exhibits as a merc. Before Peter is even able to babble anything, Deadpool is standing right in front of him, deliberately still and ramrod straight and  _silent._ It’s freaky as all hell, because Wade is  _never_ silent. Even when he’s quiet, he’s bouncing, bopping, tapping... some, any kind of motion. 

Deadpool’s hand moves back again, and Peter freezes, certain he’s about to be skewered- until the other tosses something on the table behind them, his finger making a stabbing motion toward it.

Peter turns to look. Oh.  _Oh._ It’s a newspaper. The  _Daily Bugle,_ in fact. And right there, on page _numero uno_ , is a decidedly gloomy photo of Spider-Man against the edge of a roof, looking off into an endless night. The title says, _Webbed Menace Finally Hangs Up the Suit?_

And underneath the photo, in smaller letters, it says:  _Photographer: Peter Parker._

“Peter.” Deadpool says, one last time, sounding for all the world like he’ll gladly  _eat_ Peter if he doesn’t have something good for him. “We need to talk about Spider-Man.” 


	2. The Art of Breaking Down Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I got so many warm words and love and I love it. Thank you so much, y'all are so wonderful and <3 Here's chapter two!

The first time Peter met Wade, as Spider-Man, Wade tried to kill him. 

 

Now, it's a running joke- "Hey Wade, remember when you tried to kill me? Yeah, wasn't that hilarious? I mean.  _Really_ funny stuff, when you nearly skewered me with Bea and Arthur. Ha... Yeah...." -but then, it was way less funny and way more stabby. 

 

Peter had just webbed up a couple muggers who he'd taken to calling Greasy and Mop based on their hair, when, seemingly out of nowhere, Deadpool landed with a massive, metallic thump atop the muggers' car. Not only that, but it was in the middle of Peter's heroic "you guys should be doing better things with your lives" spiel, which was  _very_ rude. He only had once chance to convince people to start taking the high road in their lives, after all. The red-and-black clad merc struck an imposing figure; despite his less than stealthy entrance, he unfurled from a crouch to his full, intimidating height almost silkily.

 

"Dude!" Greasy yowled, pretty bravely, because  _Deadpool_ , and stared at his dented car with no small amount of devastation. He wriggled in his web cocoon, trying to squirm close to the beaten up vehicle. "You killed Bernadette! You killed Berny! What the fuck!" 

 

Deadpool’s mask turned toward Greasy, and before Peter could say anything about it, he was hopping lightly to his feet- something that seemed impossible given his stature but was pulled off quite gracefully, considering -and leaning over Greasy. Greasy very wisely went quiet, like a switch had flipped. “Your car is fine, Fuckface,” he assured, and Peter could see his mouth curved into a smile underneath the stretched fabric of his mask. Peter really hated to keep harping on Deadpool's muscles, but the man had some  _serious_ guns. And with Peter being the literal size and stature of a weed, it was even more intimidating. 

 

“Spidey!” Deadpool exploded, turning so quickly on his heel that he almost sent Peter into cardiac arrest. But, y’know, Peter was a  _hero_. It wasn’t like he was shaking in his boots or anything. Or his spandex. He wasn’t shaking, okay? It was just- well, Deadpool was an assassin, right? And he was pulling his katanas out of their crossed sheaths with a soft, metallic  _snick_ , so... Nothing to be afraid of. “How’s it going, my wee webbed wonder?” Peter could just see the broad, wicked smile Deadpool donned as he steadily, slowly moved closer to him. Peter kind of felt like a gazelle watching a lion creep close. “You look as perfect as ever, fighting these baddies all night with not a single hair out of place.”

 

“I’m wearing a mask,” Peter said boldly, narrowing his eyes and trying not to audibly gulp as he stood his ground. He made sure to keep his fingers slightly curled, just in case he needed to web Deadpool's feet to the ground. “What are you doing here, Deadpool?” Because honestly, why was Deadpool even here? “I already apprehended the villains. You're not allowed to kill them, by the way.” 

 

Deadpool cocked his head like a particularly curious bird, then chuckled, the sound a low rumble that echoed throughout the alley. It kinda did something to Peter that he wasn’t entirely proud of. “Oh, sweetheart. Honey, my hit wasn’t Fuckface and Chuckles.” He jerked his head dismissively toward them. "These small fries? Really? Now that's just insulting to my prowess, sexy thang. I'm kind of hurt! No, the-"

 

“Why am I Chuckles?” Peter heard the one mutter, disgruntled.  

 

“I  _swear_ on Death’s fine skeletal ass,” Deadpool both turned and pulled out his gun in one elegant motion, embedding a bullet in between Mop‘s legs. Mop shrieked, looking like he was about to pee himself, and spread his legs as much as he could with webs wrapped around them. Peter was, in fact, stubbornly sticking with his nicknames. Hmph. “Do  _NOT_ interrupt me when I’m monologuing impressively to the unrequited love of my fucking life! The next one goes in your dick if you ruin my chance with Webs,” he said, low and cold enough to put the fear of God into both men. “Now,” he said, sounding cheerful again when he turned to Peter. “Where was I?”

 

“You were about to tell me that the hit was on me, not those two dicks,” Peter said, dryly.

 

“God  _FUCKING_ dammit!” Deadpool smashed his gun into the window of poor Bernadette, and Greasy whimpered. “It was supposed to be a whole climactic fucking reveal! And you two fuckheads ruined it!” He directed his gun toward Mop, but Peter quickly webbed the gun out of the merc’s black-gloved hand and pitched it somewhere farther down the alley. It was making him anxious. 

 

Deadpool froze, his hand flexing around where his gun was, before he lowered it very deliberately to his side. “Kidnapping  _and_ stealing? Now that’s not a good look on you at all, honeybuns.” He drawled, his voice still soft, almost pleasant. It did nothing to alleviate Peter's rapidly proliferating terror. 

 

Peter blinked. “Kidnapping?” He squawked incredibly unattractively, his eyes wide behind the mask and voice tapering into a sharp squeak as one of Deadpool’s katanas just barely missed him. He felt a tiny thread in his suit tug as he hopped lightly out of the way, landing in the Deadpool-shaped dent in Berny.

 

Greasy whimpered. 

 

“Wait-“ he started to say, but Deadpool lunged forward, and would have once again almost lodged one of his katanas in Peter’s ribs if Peter hadn’t been... well. Spider-Man. He neatly curved around Deadpool’s katana, contorting himself into a spidey pretzel before desperately climbing his way up the brick wall to get to the roof. 

 

“Come on now, itsy-bitsy,” Deadpool purred, climbing up onto the car elegantly and swiping with all that false cheer at Peter’s ankles with his katana. “Don’t make me poke you with a broomstick, baby, come on down to daddy.”

 

Peter felt heat curl through his belly at the words for  _some_ reason and shivered, glaring down at Deadpool and trying to pull his ankles away. “Don’t be so creepy, Deadpool,” he hissed, yelping as he swung to the side to dodge another bullet. "Shooting and trying to skewer me at the same time is really unfair, man," he scowled, scoping the top of the roof and looking for any kind of escape. He was torn, because he needed to get away from the mercenary, but he also wanted to figure out what Deadpool was yammering about. 

 

Deadpool had somehow gotten his gun back in hand, obviously. He blew at the smoke, one hand on his hip, and crooked a finger at Peter. When he spoke again, his voice was cold, even the fake cheer from earlier gone.

 

“Spider-Man. Don’t get me wrong here, alright? You’re my fucking  _hero_ , Webs. So imagine my face when some asshole texts me saying you fucking assaulted his children?” His hand curls around his gun and squeezes, tight; Peter's positive Deadpool's knuckles are white underneath the gloves. "And worse, it's on _video_." 

 

Oh.

 

Oh. Heck. 

 

A couple months ago, Peter had gotten a tip from Tony about some guy conducting illegal and  _extremely_ unethical genetic studies in his house, and despite Mr. Stark's warnings, he'd decided to go check it out himself. This part probably hadn't been on video, but the guy's kids, who he'd been experimenting on, were almost  _hellishly_ strong and incredibly.. bitey. Peter had had to knock them out and web them up, kind of unconventionally. Okay, yeah, he'd hit one of the kids over the head with a vase, but purely out of panic, because the eight year old looked like he wanted to take a bite out of his arm. In any case, he'd bundled them both up and taken them to Stark Tower, where Banner agreed to take care of them until they could go to a different home. In the commotion of trying to subdue the soldier kids, Peter had accidentally let the 'scientist' get away... Which Tony had ripped him a new one for. Verbally. Peter was still kind of recovering from that one. 

 

Either way, Misha and Nikita were doing great, now, and had forgiven Peter (Misha mentioned, offhandedly, that he hadn't really felt anything at all); Peter had even visited the two of them just the other day. But there was  _no way_  he was letting the two kids fall right back into the hands of their crazy dad.

 

Also, he was pretty positive that video wasn't very forgiving when it came to hitting small children with vases.

 

He was interrupted midst-reverie by a bullet burrowing its way into the brick next to his head.

 

"Now, Spidey, it is  _extremely_ rude to go into flashback mode when I'm talking to you about assaulting children," Deadpool scolded, lowering his hand to his side. "Listen up, Webs. This goes one of two ways." He lifted his katana again, every movement dripping a sense of murderous intent that made Peter stiffen. "One. You tell me where Mikhail's kids are, I take them to their daddy, and I'll still kill you, but at least you'll have done the right thing. Two, I skewer you until you can't move, I wrangle the kids' location out of you, and  _then_ I kill you, but it'll be way more work."

 

Peter's mouth opened wordlessly. What. "I- I'm not giving him back his kids!" he said, outraged. "He's a ps-" He was cut off by his own cry, jerking when another bullet just nearly missed him. Dodging away from that unfortunately put him right in the way of Deadpool's katana, and he flinched as the sharp end nicked through his suit. "Deadpool,  _wait!_  That guy was a psycho!" 

 

Deadpool's arm halted in midair, still outstretched, and Peter almost went cross-eyed trying to look at the katana. He took that opportunity to keep babbling, because he didn't really want to fight the merc, if he was being honest. Deadpool was dangerous, and worse, he never gave up. Peter didn't want the other to follow him all the way back home, or to work, or anywhere, really. "Talk," Deadpool instructed coarsely, voice scraping hard like tires against asphalt. 

 

"Okay." Peter lightly stepped aside, away from the katana, before holding his hands up in surrender. "Misha and Nikita were only eight when Mikhail stuffed them full of some sort of mutant cocktail. He wanted child soldiers, and he made them  _really_ strong. When I snuck into the house, I accidentally came in through Misha's bedroom, and he's.  _Wow_. I was caught completely off-guard. I had to break a vase over Misha's head to knock him out." Sheepishly, he rubbed the back of his head. "Not my proudest moment, I'll admit. Anyway... The kids are fine. They're with Banner. He said they've made some remarkable progress." 

 

Deadpool lowered the katana, and, after a few moments of thoughtful silence, promptly sheathed it. "Hot damn, baby boy, why didn't you just say so?" he burst out in an almost warm tone of voice, the whiplash almost giving Peter a stroke. 

 

"You... What?" Peter flailed for a second, confused. "You just.. I mean.... Just like that?"

 

"Hell yeah, my sexy little web-slinger." Deadpool grinned, swaggering closer so he was standing just a foot away from Peter. "I didn't really want to believe that you just went around beating the shit out of little kids. That would  _suck_. And put you on my naughty Christmas shit list, so.”

 

Peter dropped his arms, feeling suddenly drained. “Okay,” he said weakly, relieved but still a bit confused, mostly at Deadpool’s mercurial and rather cavalier cheer. “But I-“

 

“Come on now, baby,” Deadpool leered, rocking back and forth on his heels and moving even closer to Peter. “Don’t look a gift Deadpool in the mouth.”

 

Peter had a moment of absurd imagery where all he could think about was Deadpool wrapped up in ribbon with a bow on top, and he was promptly extremely thankful when he heard the police sirens on their way to pick up Greasy and Mop- he was blushing entirely  _too_ hard for this whole interaction to be inappropriate. "I- I gotta go," he blurted out, casting a web up toward the roof of the nearest building. 

 

Deadpool's  _very_ large hands curled around his waist, tugging him back slightly, and Peter made a very embarrassing sound at Deadpool's thumbs sliding up and over his ribs. It may not have  _been_ a sexual action, but for some reason, heat pooled in his stomach as he was pressed into Deadpool's broad chest, _damn_. Deadpool released him just as quickly as he grabbed him, leaving Peter to wonder if the move had been inherently sexual or if that was just how Deadpool operated. Also  _what the heck_.

 

"Where are you running off to so quickly, Spidey-babe?" he chirped, tapping Peter's hip playfully. "Are you not into post-attempted murder dinner? Cuddles? Fucking?" His tone rose playfully at the end, making a joke out of the statement so Peter wasn't uncomfortable... Which he did appreciate. But it didn't stop him from blushing deeply behind his mask.

 

"No," he snapped, pouting for a moment before glancing toward the entrance of the alley. "The cops are going to be here in a moment, Deadpool. I have to get out of here." And he didn't feel bad or anything when he saw Deadpool's expression fall, okay? He didn't. But he did sigh when he saw the merc's shoulders drop, his body slumping like a puppet with its strings cut, and added, "But I can give you a ride... To the nearest food truck." 

 

Deadpool whooped, exalted, then curled himself around Peter like a vine. Peter tried not to react at the feeling of Deadpool's chest, once again, and failed, once again, because Deadpool was... just _so much_. His arms curled around Peter's body, biceps pressing into Peter's ribs, and Peter abruptly realized he probably had some sort of muscle kink. He had to. Right? Right. It wasn't like he was just crazy into Deadpool or anything... Yeah. The guy had just tried to kill him. Developing an instant crush on him would be really weird, obviously.  _Obviously_. 

 

(Spoiler: he had.)

 

Deadpool was a great passenger. Swinging Deadpool through the city reminded Peter of how much joy had filled him after he'd finally figured out how to optimally utilize his web-slinging technology, and with the way the other was hollering and squeezing Peter and all but shivering with excitement made Peter beam underneath his mask, all the way to Deadpool's favorite chimichanga food truck. 

 

And yeah, since he was there, he got chimichangas with Deadpool. On principle. 

 

But not for anything else. 

 

\--

 

That, it turned out, was just a giant lie. Peter hadn't known it at the time, but he was just head over heels for the Merc With a Mouth already- he just hadn't known it. And it's times like this, where Deadpool is being all intimidating and sexy, that he's reminded of why he fell for the merc even when the other was about to kill him all that time ago. 

 

Usually, Deadpool isn't intimidating to Peter, more to people who seem like they're  _bothering_ Peter, but that's a flashback for another time, seeing as Deadpool looks like he's going to kill him  _again_. 

 

"U-Uh?" Peter squeaks eloquently, because something about not being in his Spider-Man costume causes all that sassy confidence to just evaporate, leaving behind a soggy nerd. "Wh-What do you mean?"

 

Deadpool lifts his gloved hand away from the paper, fingers twitching like he’s thinking about threatening Peter with his katanas, instead. “Spidey, Peter. Sassy? Webby? Gorgeous, especially in the rear area? Usually solves crimes around here? Oh, what am I sayin’, you know who he is. And fuck off, I’m not gonna shoot the kid  _yet._ Not unless...” Peter gulps, recognizing when the merc is chatting to his boxes, and Deadpool waves his hand dismissively before crossing his arms- a move that definitely doesn’t go unnoticed, especially because of the way his suit stretches. “He hasn’t been answering my text messages.”

 

“I-“ Peter blinks. “Maybe he just forgot?” He suggests, starting to calm down a little bit. This is Deadpool, after all. He knows him, for lack of a better word,  _intimately._ He shouldn’t be so freaked out. Moving over to the microwave, he gets back to preparing his five-star soup. “Or he’s busy.”

 

Deadpool moves up behind him and into his space, ducking to look into the microwave and making a face. “Oh, this is just sad, Petey,” he says dramatically, reaching past Peter to smack at the ‘stop’ button. Peter’s stomach growls in protest. “Come on, kid. This is gonna take a couple minutes, I’ll treat you with some  _actual_ food.”

 

Peter wants to decline, and Deadpool must see it on his face, because before Peter can even say anything there’s a gloved finger pressed against his lips. It smells like gunpowder and metal, familiar enough to Spider-Man that it makes Peter a little dizzy, too. God, he is  _so_ affected by everything Deadpool does, it’s pathetic.

 

“Shush, Petey-Pie. It’ll be my treat for scaring the shit out of you.” So he  _knew_ he did that! What an asshole. Deadpool seems to read Peter’s mind, because he grins again, the expression causing his mask to dip inwards... but something about his demeanor is restrained. It’s like ... there’s something more effervescent and natural there when he’s with Spider-Man, and Peter kind of misses it. It also kinda makes him feel even more fond towards Deadpool... Wade. 

 

“Fine,” Peter grudgingly accepts, blinking up at Deadpool before grabbing his coat. Then, he actually sees his door. “Oh, my god,” he bemoans, forgetting about their outing. “You destroyed my door, Deadpool. How am I going to ...” Then he realizes something even worse. If he goes out with Deadpool, there’s the chance that Greg or his Watchman, as Peter has eloquently coined him, will see. And what if they go after Aunt May or something, or send out the video? He should know better; the Watchman warned him yesterday, and if he goes with Deadpool now, he’ll be effectively ignoring a very real warning.

 

“Kid,” Deadpool’s voice sounds distorted, but it’s a low and soothing rumble under all the  _noise_ in Peter’s head. “Breathe, Petey, you’re panicking,” Deadpool continues softly, one hand pressed to Peter’s ribs surprisingly gently and the other against his back. “I’m really sorry about the door, I’ll go threaten someone to get it fixed. It’s on me.”

 

Peter takes in a few ragged breaths, steadying himself against Deadpool’s arm before straightening. “Yeah... the door,” he says, his voice a little raspy. “I. Um, don’t want to leave my apartment until the door is fixed, Deadpool.” He says lamely, because while the door is still on its hinges, it looks  _beaten_ in, and with Greg and Watchman scrutinizing him, Peter can’t afford to go with Deadpool anyway. Peter did make sure to put curtains up over his windows, but he’s not sure if that’s even enough... 

 

Then another horrifying thought comes to mind, and he goes sheet-white. What if his apartment’s been bugged? They could be seeing all of this  _right now._ They might even think he’s in kahoots with Deadpool.... or... he hasn’t felt so paranoid in years, and he’s starting to realize why he didn’t miss it. He feels like he’s constantly on the edge of panic.

 

For a moment, it feels like his feet aren’t touching the ground... and then he blinks and he’s on the couch, leaned back against the cushions. Deadpool’s only a few feet away, gazing at him silently. It’s actually kind of weird to see the other even  _be_ silent, really. Peter squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then tries to ground himself by gripping the ratty sofa cushions and digging his nails into them.

 

“Sorry,” he coughs, then blinks in surprise as Deadpool extends a glass of water to him. “When...”

 

“Don’t worry about that, Petey-sweetie,” Deadpool chirps, relaxing a little when Peter takes the water and gulps it down. “Let’s worry about something else for a second. Your setup here blows serious ass.” He hops to his feet, rocking back and forth before taking a look around the admittedly desolate apartment. “Hell, there’s like no security here! No wonder Webs is always hanging around you.” Deadpool paces for a second before staring right at Peter and saying, with abrupt seriousness, “I just gotta know. Is Spidey safe? ‘Cause if he’s not bursting in to kick my ass for scaring the shit out of you and if he’s not responding to my messages, then.” Deadpool resumes pacing. “Yeah, I know he could’ve just gotten sick of me, I mean have you  _seen_ me?” he mutters, obviously to his boxes, and Peter feels ill all of a sudden. 

 

“No, he-“ he blurts out, blushing a little when Deadpool abruptly turns on his heel toward him. “There’s been some ... stuff,” he says, trying not to either look or sound too shady. “He uh. Doesn’t want to put you in danger.” He scuffs at the floor with his foot, trying to come up with something a little more solid, because Deadpool is still watching him silently. “That’s why we’ve been taking pictures in... shitty, gloomy spots ... because. He’s trying to stay on the DL.”

 

Deadpool’s fingers twitch again. “He’s trying to keep  _me_ safe?” He sounds kind of strangled, but Peter can’t tell if it’s because he’s flattered or he thinks Spider-Man is just nuts. “He knows I can’t die, right? He knows that he  _can,_ right?!” He starts pacing once more, more agitated. “That’s not cool, Petey. You let him know that’s not cool,” he says after a moment, dark and serious, now looking dead at Peter. “And you tell him,” Deadpool moves closer, hands pressed flat against the cushion behind Peter, “that I’m going to get to the fucking bottom of this. And when I figure out who’s behind my little darlin’ getting so spooked, I’m gonna stuff them so full of metal they’ll be shitting it for months.” 

 

Peter doesn’t want to be that guy, but he’s definitely turned on at this point. “I,” he breathes, hugging the pillow close to himself to hide any visible signs of being turned on. He’s trying to take this seriously, dammit! Deadpool doesn’t play games, not when it comes to villains and  _definitely_ not when it comes to Spider-Man. Before Peter can say anything, though, Deadpool is moving away, heading for the door. “I’m gonna find someone to take care of the door, kid. You get some Zs, get it?” Deadpool points at him threateningly, and Peter’s head jerks into a nod like he’s being commanded. 

 

“Good boy,” Deadpool says warmly, and then he’s gone. Peter thinks he’s too strung up to sleep after that, but he does end up passing out on the couch after a few minutes.

 

And when he wakes up, his door is fixed, and there’s Mexican wrapped in a plastic bag in the fridge.


	3. (Not) Phone Sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I'm blown away by all the support. Thank you! (Also, I've edited the tags just a little, accordingly).

 

 

**From: ‘pool**

**hey baby boy, I know you’re trying to keep me safe and all by being ‘on the DL’ as ur precious nerd friend said (petey. he’s sweet. kinda shook a lot) but if you could at least meet me for five tonight**

**From: ‘pool**

**that would be nice.**

**From: ‘pool**

**also i kinda wanna get my hands all over you webs. seriously. its been ages since i’ve gotten a handful of that fine spidey booty. my hands are gonna forget the shape and that’s nOT OKAY**

 

Peter smiles, once again despite himself. Also he kinda takes a little bit of offense to the whole  _Peter shakes a lot_  thing; he only shakes a lot in the face of imminent death. And when he’s being stalked and blackmailed and probably on camera, that would usually shake someone right up.... Not that he could make that obvious to Deadpool, at the time. 

 

The base of his spine tingles warningly, not really in a Spidey-sense way but more of a  _I am paranoid and kind of freaked out all the time_  sort of way, and Peter glances around his office cubicle suspiciously. Thing is, he's got like a whole lot of stuff in his cubicle- nerdy calendars with periodic tables sprawled over his desk, several coffee mugs with  _more_ nerdy jokes on them (he's basically a walking meme right now, honestly), just a  _whole_ bunch of papers and newspaper articles all over the place. -which means it would be  _super_ easy for someone to stick a bug somewhere. He frowns before looking down at his phone and hesitantly tapping out a response. 

 

**To: ‘pool**

**Ah, I guess peter told you about that. Sorry... things have been a little rough.**

**From: ‘pool**

**i know baby. anything a famous Deadpool massage can do ya for?**

**To: ‘pool**

**Your massages aren’t famous :P**

**From: ‘pool**

**ouch.**

**From: ‘pool**

**you really know how to hit a guy where it hurts, sweet thang. even a scarred up bad avocado-looking chicken tender like me**

Peter rolls his eyes, his lower lip pursing out a little bit at the self-lampooning. He’s always been ... sensitive to Deadpool verbally degrading himself. People around Deadpool usually vary in their reactions, mostly choosing to chuckle along with him or cast him an uncomfortable frown. Other people they interact with, sometimes bartenders or waiters or homeless folk, will huff dismissively and carry on like Deadpool didn’t say anything. Sometimes people can be needlessly cruel, taking the little barbs he sticks himself with and forging them into full-on weapons; Deadpool  _always_ laughs, but Peter can only handle so much before he snaps at someone- especially when they take it too far. 

 

Deadpool’s never taken his mask off around Peter, and instead rolls it up only so far as his nose when they’re out and about. Even that much is sensitive for him, which causes him to crack joke after joke to show Peter how much it  _doesn’t_ bother him. When he makes all those damn jokes, there’s something that  _aches_ , and Peter doesn’t have to see Wade’s eyes to know as much. The last thing he wants to do is diminish Wade’s scars, what he went through, so he accepts that they’re part of him. And when Wade trails the back of his hands over his hips, his ribs, his stomach... the feeling of his skin leaves him tingling all over. 

 

Peter loves all of Wade. And that includes his scars. 

 

**To: ‘pool**

**you’re my chicken tender.**

**From: ‘pool**

**There you go again, saying shit that you can’t take back webs**

**From: ‘pool**

**are you safe, gorgeous?**

 

Peter bites his lower lip, his ankles crossing over each other as he admires the goofy picture of Wade he took for the icon. Deadpool’s sex drive has always been a lot, even before they started messing around, but not being around Wade and hearing the stupid (but also sexy) stuff he babbles is actually having more of an effect on Peter than he would like to admit.

 

Also. Wade is tactile as  _hell_. And Peter just so happens to love being touched... which Wade narrows in on like an overtly sexual homing pigeon, to Peter's (feigned) despair. 

 

**To: ‘pool**

**I don't want to take it back.**

**and yeah, safe ... and alone, for now.**

**From: ‘pool**

**oh?**

The call comes a beat later, and Peter, admittedly, isn’t surprised. He slips out of his cubicle, purposefully pushing past a shady looking Greg in the hallway a little harder than necessary, before scuttling off to the nearest supply closet and closing the door with a soft  _click_. 

 

The only person who comes through here is Jesse, the janitor, and he’s already made his rounds and headed home for the day. Peter, Greg, a regretful intern named Malini, and Jameson himself are the only ones here at all, and as far as Peter knows, nobody’s going to be coming to the supply closet. 

 

Perfect.

 

“Long time no flirt, beautiful,” Wade all but leers when Peter picks up the phone. 

 

“Hey,” Peter feels shy all of a sudden, lowers himself onto a downturned bucket as he cradles the phone between his chin and ear. “Sorry I-“

 

“Nah-uh, Webs,” Wade cuts him off, sounding playfully stern. “If I wanted to hear a whole slew of apologies, I’d have called my old high school classmates. Get it? It’s a Canadian joke? Because we always fuckin’ apologize? Never mind, I’m off my game. Shut the fuck up,” he says all of a sudden, offhandedly. Peter smiles a little, sympathetically.

 

“White?” He asks, wincing when he knocks a mop over. 

 

“Yellow,” Deadpool mutters, and there’s a  _thunk_ from his end of the line. Kind of sounds like he’s doing some clubbing .... of the violent variety.

 

“Are you punching someone?” Peter asks suspiciously, tucking one knee up against his body. “Because it sounds like you’re punching someone.”

 

“Nothing gets past my brilliant little web-slinger,” Wade blurts out cheerfully, and there’s a wet, slick sound like a katana being pulled out of someone.

 

“Deadpool,” Peter scolds. “You’re not supposed to be maiming people!” Wade is easier to keep an eye on when Peter is somewhere near him and explicitly reminding him not to skewer villains and run-of-the-mill assholes, but Wade does try to follow Peter’s directions even when Spider-Man isn’t around ...  _try_ being the key word. 

 

“I know, I know,” Wade does sound momentarily regretful, even though there’s another suspicious squish of a sound that makes Peter furrow his brow in disapproval. “Okay, here’s the thing, though- Remember Mikhail? From- I mean, Misha and Nikita’s dad?” 

 

Peter can’t really forget that; it’s embedded into his memory with when they met. Also, in a heartwarming and somewhat surprising twist, Wade has not only  _met_ Misha and Nikita, but the kids have taken a quick liking to the merc. Well... It's more surprising to Bruce and Tony, but Peter knows Wade has a soft spot the size of the whole  _world_ for children, and watching Wade give the kids 'reluctant' piggyback rides and grumble his way through teaching Misha and Nikita how to make the  _perfect_ pancakes is really wholesome. 

 

He winces a little. “Yes, I remember Mikhail. But you, uh...” he clears his throat meaningfully and very dryly says, “You dealt with Mikhail a while back.”

 

They both know that’s just putting it lightly. If there are two things Deadpool loathes more than anything else, it’s being manipulated and genetic testing ... on children, no less. 

 

Peter still doesn’t know if he’s up to ask Deadpool what he did to Mikhail, but he does know that Tony himself is fairly tight-lipped about it, which means it must have been something fairly gruesome. Deadpool has negative patience for anyone like that, which translates to a whole lot of fury and power that he exercises accordingly. 

 

“Oh, I know,” Wade drawls cheerfully, and there’s one last muffled thud and what sounds like a door clicking open. “I’ve been tracking down his associates, one by one, and it turns out they each have their own nifty little setups ...”

 

“So subdue them!” Peter squawks, burying his face in his hand as he shakes his head. “You promised me you weren’t going to kill unless you  _absolutely_ had to, and even then-!”

 

“-I probably don’t have to, I know, baby,” Wade sighs, and his end is finally a bit quieter. “Trust me- there was only a bit of light maiming through non-lethal points of entry. I’ve even made all the appropriate calls to people who are going to take them away. But enough about me ...” he trails off, huffing out a sigh, and it sort of sounds like he’s sitting down. Hopefully not in the middle of a crime scene. “What’s going on with you, sunshine?”

 

Peter’s lip curls into a moue of displeasure as he remembers Greg and Watchman; even a few moments of listening to Wade chatter about maiming evil scientists had alleviated his mood, if only for a few moments. “It’s ...” Peter closes his eyes, then plaintively blurts out, “it has to do with my secret identity.”

 

There’s a small movement on the other line, and then any trace of joking is gone from Deadpool’s voice. “Is it in danger?”

 

Peter winces. “No...?”

 

“Hit me with the terms and conditions like you’re Apple, baby boy.” The words are arranged like a joke, but Deadpool’s not laughing. 

 

_Apple?_  Peter shakes his head. “Spider-Man goes underground or the world finds out who’s under the mask. They have ... precautions in place.”

 

“Precautions,” Deadpool echoes flatly. 

 

“Yeah, uh...” Peter swallows down a wave of nausea, clutching the circular edge of the bucket until his knuckles burn white. “Video... and. I don’t know.” Peter’s been doing full body sweeps in the mornings, now that he’s paranoid... it feels like everyone is out to get him, even people who just bump into him slightly on the sidewalks. In New York? That kind of thing is only weird if it  _doesn’t_ happen. And has he just...  _blown it?_  If Greg and Watchman are listening in, they know Peter is effectively telling Deadpool what’s wrong... or  _trying_ to tell him, because he just can't help himself. Wade makes him want to just... Spill. “I gotta go.”

 

“Spi-“ Deadpool begins, a blend of worry and anger tight in his voice, but Peter makes an apologetic whimper of a sound that embarrasses him enough to make Deadpool halt mid-word.

 

“...I didn’t even get to verbally sext with you,” Deadpool drawls regretfully after a moment, clearly trying to soothe Peter, but Peter’s not sure he’s going to feel better until he switches his phone out- or has Tony scan it for bugs and put some kind of tech in it that prevents him from  _being_ bugged. Wait... Is he even allowed to go see Tony anymore? What if Watchman trails him to the Avengers Tower, and... 

 

Peter blushes, mortified, wondering if Greg is listening in right now. He’ll never live it down if anyone listens to him and Deadpool having phone sex.

 

“We’ll have a taco night soon,” Peter whispers, and if there’s a verbal equivalent to abruptly tensing up, he can feel Wade do it. They created this system a while back, after people kept trying to  _kidnap_ them- really annoying, by the way -to let the other know something was wrong over phone, text, or verbally in person. It’s just so  _typically Wade_  that all of their codes have to do with Mexican food- ‘have a taco night’ effectively stands in for ‘I’m pretty sure I’m being watched, stalked, or eavesdropped on.” 

 

Other gems include ‘I can’t wait to get chimichangas with you,’ which means ‘there’s a gun trained on me’ and ‘save some enchiladas for me,’ which means ‘this is a hostage situation, be careful.’ 

 

“Oh,” Deadpool murmurs, the word a low, calming rumble against the phone. “Okay, sweetheart. I’m gonna let you go now, okay? About that taco night ... I’m going to find the best taco stand in the city and _burn down the rest,”_  he swears, cheerfully threatening. 

 

A little too obvious, but Peter lets it slide. Deadpool doesn’t have a great track record of controlling himself when it comes to Spider-Man anyway, and it’s one of the reasons Peter wholeheartedly fell for him him. 

 

“‘Pool?” He says, and something in his voice must be audibly pained, because he feels the temperature shift in their conversation. “Listen ... I’m.”  _Scared_ , he wants to say, but the word sticks behind his teeth like hooks. “I-” he tries again, but it’s so difficult to  _admit_ it, and he ... 

 

“I know, Webs,” Deadpool says softly, and Peter closes his eyes, his heart a bit overwhelmed... but definitely not in a bad way. It’s so... strange to have someone be this aware of how he feels, this ... invested in him. Swinging around solo and never sharing his identity had managed to convince Peter that he was alone in his emotions, before Deadpool. “I have an idea. While you’re on the DL, our point of contact can be uh, your friend? Peter?” 

 

Peter hangs his head, at once cursing and thanking the gods that Deadpool isn’t nosy enough to put two and two together. “Yeah, that’s fine, ‘Pool.” His eyelashes are a little wet. 

 

“Don’t get all jealous on me, honeybuns,” Wade teases, breaking the tension with a little chuckle. “You’ll always be my forever Spidey, ain’t no one getting in between us.”

 

Imagine that. Peter being jealous of Peter. He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of it. “I can’t help it. Everyone knows you’ve got a thing for nerds,” he accuses with a little giggle, and he feels Wade audibly relax on the other end. 

 

“Only nerdy babes in red and blue spandex with butts that never quit,” Wade laughs. “Nah, Peter is a doll, but my baby got  _back_.”  Peter of course  _knows_ that they are, in fact, the same butt, but he figures spandex probably accentuates it a little more obscenely. A lot more obscenely. He digresses, but the compliment always makes him blush, anyway. “I could wax lyrical about you all day, my sexy little spider. Shakespeare ain’t got shit. Well, that’s a lie. Dude had some  _great_ lines.  _The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.”_

From anyone else, it would have been stupidly cheesy... Even a bit too much for Peter, honestly. He’d gone on a couple dates with guys who’d showered him with expensive gifts and pricey wines and sweet words, and they always made him cringe a little bit. Or a lot. 

 

But. To hear the words roll off Wade’s tongue like silk, purred low and sweet, makes Peter shiver almost reflexively.

 

“Did you... just quote  _The Tempest?”_  He smiles, pleasantly surprised and a little embarrassed that he’s more than slightly turned on. “When did you even have time to read that?” He laughs, forgetting for a moment that he really should be getting off the phone by now.

 

“Oh, you know,” Wade hums vaguely. “I was doing some light reading once while I was squatting in some rich guy’s house to off him. Sorry, I mean... well, yeah, to off him. Promise it wasn’t recent though,” he adds hastily. Peter rolls his eyes, but truthfully, he’s just impressed that Wade remembers quotes from plays he read quite a while ago, and he can’t really hold Wade’s past murders over his head too much. 

 

“Light reading,” he echoes with a small smile, by now a bit pink, even though he’s not sure why. Actually, he knows why, he  _knows_ he’s into that whip-smart, genius side of Deadpool that Wade doesn’t flaunt all that much. He remembers all sorts of obscure references and forgotten lines from things he’s watched only once or years ago, so Peter’s not  _entirely_ surprised that Wade has a whole collection of Shakespeare quotes filed away there. 

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll let you get away with you pretending you’re dumb... for now.” Peter continues, the smile fading from his lips as he squints up at the bare, pathetic looking lightbulb illuminating the dank closet. “But there’ll be none of that later, Mister.”

 

“Oof, Spidey-babe, I love it when you get all toppy with me,” Wade chirps, then sobers up as well. “Keep in touch. Tell Peter to watch out for me, I don’t want to scare him like I did last time.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes, mouth pursing into a pout again, but lets it go with a sigh. “Bye, ‘Pool.”

 

“Catch you on the flip side, gumdrop.” 

 

Peter sighs, powering the phone down before stretching his legs and getting to his feet. He's definitely going through a mild Wade-withdrawal, because there's something addictive about Wade's constant chatter filling up the empty spaces that had  _felt_ peaceful but, in retrospect, was probably loneliness. Having a partner in crime, even if that partner  _is_ kind of the crime, brings Peter a sense of something warmer, something that feels like love. 

 

His phone buzzes again, and Peter glances down, expecting Wade. His stomach drops. 

 

**This message is from an unverified number.**

**From: Unknown Number**

**Thin fucking ice, Parker.**

 

This time, when the panic attack hits, Peter is alone. 

 

\---

 

It's late when he finally gathers himself enough to leave the closet and go home... Only to find that, as a tidy bow on top of the dismal direction the day has taken, the heater in his apartment has gone kaput. He calls maintenance to fix it, and as usual, they effectively tell him to deal with it until they can get someone to come check on it. It's cold as hell, and Peter has the unfortunate Spidey luck of being even colder than the general human populace. A few hours of trying to get work done finds him shivering underneath two threadbare blankets, his hands cold enough that he can't seem to type properly anymore. 

 

It's not quite late winter yet, but it's New York (so... Cold), and the sun's long gone. He already has to wear his winter jacket around before it's  _winter_ winter, but at least when he's patrolling, the Spider-Man suit keeps him almost incredibly toasty... Thanks to Tony's adjustments, that is. 

 

_To hell with it_ , he thinks for a moment, about to go change into his suit so he can be at least moderately comfortable, but before he can, he hears a low, unobtrusive knock against the glass of his window. Slowly, with no small amount of alarm, he turns around- only to find Deadpool chilling outside, his mouth pulled into an excited grin as he flails his arms like one of those inflatable tube people. Peter hurries over, partially hoping the faster movement will get his sluggish blood flow going a little bit, and opens the window with a small sigh.

 

"You know," he says, his relief at seeing Wade eclipsed only by the fear that Watchman is seeing everything that's happening, "When Spider-Man said I should be expecting you, I didn't think..." He trails off, shaking his head before stepping aside and letting Wade clamber in. "... And you're covered in blood," he adds, looking heavenward and wrapping his blanket tighter around himself.

 

"Yeah, I-" Wade starts, but comes to an abrupt halt when he sees Peter. "Okay, I promise you're the cutest, second _only_ to the love of my fucking depressing life, but honey, you look like a Pop-Up." He steps closer, giving Peter an incredulous look. "I mean, you've got to just be trying to freak me out at this point, right? I kinda thought  _my_ life sucked, but ..." He notices the heater and makes his way over, frowning at it before making a tsk sound under his breath. "Of course I fucking know how to fix a heater. Okay, fine, I don't know how to fix a heater  _yet_. What do you mean, I have a soft spot? Any friend of Spidey's and all that shit," he chatters for a minute under his breath, disgruntled and before Peter can help himself, he's giggling... and then full out bursting into laughter. 

 

 

 

Wade turns, surprised, and through tears of laughter Peter notices the tension of the merc's shoulders relax, the curve of his mouth relaxing into something gentler. 

 

"You are so ridiculous," Peter blurts out, his voice saturated with something fond. "Don't worry about the heater," he says, already feeling a bit warmer as he clings to the blankets. "I've c-called maintenance, they'll p-probably have someone here tomorrow afternoon, or evening, or something..." He tries not to sound too disgruntled, but Wade just stares at him like he's sprouted an extra head.

 

"You're literally trembling," the merc says flatly, frowning at him. "I mean, it's cold in here, but I didn't think it was  _that_ cold. You're shaking like Tin Man when someone sneezes in his fucking workshop. It was cute the first time, you know, in a sort of  _aw, he's just a nervous lil walking stick_  way but now I'm concerned, and the more concerned I am, the longer I'll hang around, and you probably don't want that, unless you're crazy or Spidey, and I'm not sure even Spidey can handle too many concentrated doses of me anyway-"

 

This startles and upsets Peter enough that he blurts out, "Spider-Man enjoys your company a lot." Wade pins him with the whites of his mask, so still that he looks like a cardboard cutout of himself, and Peter rubs the back of his neck. "He says he tells you a lot, b-but you don't think he... really means ... it..." He trails off, the words tapering into a whisper as he and Wade just stare at each other. "He really likes you." He murmurs, breaking the staring contest and turning back to his laptop. 

 

"Huh," he hears Wade say, followed by a moment of silence and then the sounds of tinkering. "Anyway, you never told me what it is that’s got you all jittery, Petey-pie.”

 

“Oh, uh..” Peter thinks for a moment, then sits back down in front of his computer to finish his essay. “I have anemia,” he coughs, wrapping himself tighter into his blankets. It’s the best he can come up with on a whim, honestly. Wade seems to accept his excuse and hums something that sounds like the theme song for  _Golden Girls_ as he tries to fix the heater. 

 

"It's not right," Wade says after a few minutes of them each doing their own things. "You freezing in here, all alone, in this dank apartment." He looks around the drafty little space and shakes his head, and Peter huffs out a small, disparaging chuckle. "Why didn't you ask Spider-Man for help, then?" Wade continues, cursing heartily for a good minute and fortunately sparing Peter from having to answer that loaded question. 'Fuck  _off,"_ he snaps, again obviously to the boxes, before pointing a wrench at Peter. "Listen up, Twiggy," he says, and Peter jolts slightly. "Your apartment fucking sucks, and I got a look at your fridge- sorry, messing with shit I don't know about makes me hungry -and you happen to have negative food, which is just  _appalling_ for a growing boy like you. Between you and Spidey, I swear I'm going to have an aneurysm, which wouldn't affect me more than like, just a little headache  _anyway._ So it's not  _that bad,_ but I just gotta know, what the fuck are you ea-" 

 

He seems to come to a realization and halts mid-word, meeting Peter's wry gaze. He takes a good look around the shitty apartment, at the broken heater, at the fridge with no food in it, and lowers his arm. "Oh."

 

"Listen," Peter turns all the way around, wrapping his legs around the back of the chair. "It's not a big deal, I'll be getting my paycheck soon. For now, I'm just ...food insecure," he says softly, looking down because well, yeah, he's ashamed. Wade doesn't know he's Spider-Man, but  _Peter_ knows, and there's something kind of depressing about being a vigilante on one hand and being a poor-as-hell college student on the other. He slumps miserably, and Wade clears his throat.

 

"Well, fuck that." Wade declares almost vengefully, making a clinking sound as he fiddles with the heater. "I'm not gonna let some friend of Spidey's  _starve_ to death. And you didn't answer my question, from earlier. Why not just ask Toots for help? Toots is Spidey, by the way."

 

"You know he's going through some stuff," Peter says, a little pained. He feels like he's about to steal a diamond, and there's a billion lasers he's gotta weave in and out of to avoid tripping himself up... Not that he'd ever steal a diamond, or anything. "Otherwise... He would help." Not really. But Wade didn't need to know that his idol would have been in the middle of freezing his ass off in a shabby old apartment if he hadn't intervened.

 

"Right." Wade stops, and the heater rattles to life painfully. "Listen, Petey-sweetie, I told Spidey I would watch out for you-"

 

-that's a lie, but it's benign enough, and Peter can't really call Wade out on lying, anyway-

 

"-And, to be honest, I get this feeling that your paycheck is getting almost entirely funneled into-" Wade gestures at the course website Peter has pulled up on his computer screen. "-so, to be honest, you've kinda backed me into a corner here- not on purpose or anything, you're too nice for that, but it's still a  _corner._ Shut up," he snaps abruptly, looking off to the side for a second and clearly engaging one of the boxes. "I do, in fact, have room in my heart for people  _other_ than that sexy little bastard ... Not much, but I do!" 

 

"Huh?" Peter opens and closes his mouth like a fish, confused.

  
"Okay," Wade drops the wrench in place, hands on his hips, and ... Wait a second, where did he even get that wrench? "What I'm going to do is  _casually_ bring food by once in a while, for you, as a friend, so we can eat together. As friends do." He gives Peter a meaningful look. "And if there are leftovers, you can keep them in your fridge." 

 

Peter rolls his eyes, but for some reason, he's not insulted. He knows Wade's trying to make this as casual as possible for the sake of his dignity, and because it's Wade, he'll let it slide. "You can come back and eat those leftovers whenever," he says instead, and Wade just stares at him for a moment, apparently not understanding the implications behind Peter's words. At first.

 

"Oh.  _Oh!"_ Wade realizes after a moment, the whites of his eyes widening as it dawns on him that Peter's all but extended the invitation for Wade to come over whenever he wants. "Yeah, okay, I'll... Yeah," he mutters, trying to be casual, but he kind of fails and ends up looking something just short of ecstatic. It makes Peter feel a little sad, so he gets up and tentatively pats Wade's elbow.

 

Wade abruptly plays statue again.

 

"Thank you," Peter says softly, looking past Wade at the heater. Stupid thing "I ... Was really cold." His skin feels like too much right now, the secret of Spider-Man sitting heavy and unbearable underneath it.

 

"Yeah, Peter," Wade says quietly... Surprisingly. It's ... Strange being next to Wade like this without being able to to touch him, kiss him, do anything intimate. It's driving Peter a little crazy, but he tries to hold on to his self control so he's not all but trying to get Wade to cheat on... Well, him. "You remind me of Spidey," he continues, and Peter doesn't trust himself to keep a straight face if he looks at Wade, so he stares at the heater instead. Wade shifts back into movement beside him. "Anyway, I have a job tonight, so I gotta head out. You gonna be okay?"

 

"Yeah, Deadpool." Peter looks up at him, underneath his eyelashes, and he feels Wade stiffen almost inconspicuously. "Don't kill anyone." 

 

Wade gives him an imperceptible look as he climbs out of the window the way he came in. "Goodnight, Peter." 

 

Peter swallows, watching him go, and then closes the window, resting his forehead against the cold glass and expelling a shaky breath. 

 

_Heck._


	4. Gentle Reminder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, there's some violence in this chapter. I don't think it's too graphic, but I'll be adjusting the tags accordingly. Proceed with caution! Things are gonna get rough these next couple of chapters. 
> 
> Thank you so, SO much for all your comments!

Peter had been ‘reluctantly’ teaming up with Deadpool for three months when the two of them were first abducted. Reluctantly, as in all they did was flirt and argue- well. Deadpool flirted and Peter pushed back halfheartedly -but Peter was having ... Fun with Deadpool, more than he had with anyone else he'd teamed up with. Deadpool proved to be  _hilarious_ (which was something Peter grudgingly accepted, and only to himself), when he wasn't going on tangents about something to do with writers and their BS, and had proved himself to be a pretty awesome partner who Peter actually  _trusted_... which felt nice. Peter had spent a while doing the  _lone wolf_ thing, and he'd kind of forgotten what it was like to... Hear someone's voice on missions, or on patrol. 

 

It was more or less a dual abduction; a villain aptly named Claw got his hands on the two of them in an effort to bring 'more power to the people'... By getting rid of their heroes. He had a vendetta against vigilantes,  _especially_ vigilantes in spandex who also, occasionally (and only in Deadpool's case) had a penchant for good old-fashioned murder. Which was just great. He also clearly thought Spider-Man was just a small fry compared to the Avengers, which, fine, Peter could get behind that, but Deadpool seemed to take personal offense to that. 

 

"I mean, what you're doing... Isn't that just reverse vigilantism?" Deadpool grinned, turning his head so his cheek pressed against the back of Peter's masked head. They happened to be handcuffed back to back, their restraints connected to each other, and judging by the way Deadpool's fingers brushed over Peter's every so often, he was probably planning on outright maiming himself in order to get out. Peter already felt no small amount of dread in anticipation of that move, but he tried to engage Claw as he paced angrily back and forth in his tirade. 

 

"Don't even joke about that," Claw spat, curling his hands into fists. "Not everyone who has powers fucking- fucking thinks that they can just  _be_ the law. _Some_ of us are normal, you know,  _some_ of us are just normal taxpayers who keep their powers on the down low..." he uncurled his hand, showing off retractable claws as he glared, with no small amount of loathing, at Deadpool. "And why should you be any different? What makes you better than a cop? Why not just let them do their jobs instead of constantly getting in the way and putting us mutants in the spotlight like we're some sick freak show?" he shouted, and Peter shrugged cheekily as Deadpool's fingers twitched again.

 

"I just like to assist with the criminals they can't catch," Peter raised his eyebrows behind his mask, moving his legs to force some feeling back into them in case Deadpool suddenly sprung into action. "But I don't know what you're going on about, dude. If you kill us, you're playing judge, jury, and executioner... Not just law. Also,  _hey_ , I pay taxes just like everyone else! 'Pool? Please tell me tax evasion isn't on your list of offenses?" He nudged Deadpool playfully, and the merc groaned in response. 

 

"Oh, Spidey, sweetie, sunshine of my life, you have to already know that I've never paid a single goddamn tax in my life. I know you overestimate me, my sexy little webslinger, but you need to take that bar that you've set for me and keep going 'till you hit the core of the earth, and that's  _still_ too high. Yellow says you might as well fling that bar into a black hole." He winced, and his words seemed joking at first glance, but ... There was a depth to them that was surprisingly raw. "I aim only to disappoint." 

 

Peter reassuringly pressed his fingertips against Deadpool's. "Now that's not true, you big black and red teddy bear," he smiled, and all too late his Spidey sense kicked in. He turned abruptly, only to receive a chestful of gouges, courtesy of Claw's ... claws, and keened, curling in on himself to alleviate the pain a little bit.

 

Deadpool  _snarled_. "Listen, fucker, I don't really care what your problem is, if I'm being entirely honest. I haven't been listening to a single fucking word you've been blathering, but all I can figure is that your nice, safe life ain't all it's cut out to be if you're lookin' for love in all the wrong places like this. Spidey's just wholesome enough to still want to let you get out of here with all your limbs intact, shining beacon of spandex-wrapped heroism that he is, but me? You won't get that luxury with me. Kinda ironic, because I'm the Canadian one, and Spidey's from New fucking York, where every Tom, Dick, and Harry thinks they're a fucking merc when you even bump into them accidentally in the subway. You're right, I'm getting distracted, so let me get back on topic." Deadpool pinned Claw with a dead-eyed stare, his body locked down so hard that he just about vibrated with tension. "If you want me to take Spidey's pleas for sparing you into consideration in the near future when I inevitably tear off my thumbs and escape, you're going to let the both of us out of these rookie restraints and walk back to your boring, nine-to-five, white-picket-fence life. And you're going to stop doing stupid bullshit like this." 

 

There was a moment of silence. Peter's chest heaved, and he whimpered a little bit as he looked down at the tears in his suit. Yeah, he was in pain, but the suit was super awesome and he really hated getting scraped and torn up enough that he had to take it back to Tony for repairs. Ugh.

 

"Wait, what do you mean, tear off your thumbs?" Claw suddenly screeched, and Deadpool visibly seemed to roll his eyes. Peter winced at the wet sound of Deadpool mangling his own thumbs before the merc got to his feet, narrowing in on Claw with deadly, barely contained power humming underneath his skin. Claw seemed to realize exactly how deep into all of this he'd gotten, because he cowered back as Deadpool withdrew Bea and Arthur from their sheathes, and Peter managed to partially uncurl himself long enough to croak out,

 

"'Pool, please... Don't kill him." 

 

Deadpool did this thing where sometimes, he froze, so still that it was almost predatory. Peter had started to recognize the action as a response to Deadpool battling with his own mind, working through tumult, rage, uncertainty, or some horrific medley of all three. The merc acknowledged Peter with a slight head turn, and the dim light in the middle-of-nowhere warehouse that Claw had them squatting in brought out the gleaming white eyes in the black of Deadpool's mask. There was still a low thrum of tension under Deadpool's feet, but a beat later, the merc was sliding his katanas back into their sheathes and knocking Claw out in one clean movement. 

 

"...Thank you." Peter murmured and closed his eyes, his body listing sideways slightly, and there was a _pop_ that he registered as Deadpool shooting his handcuffs off. The metal pooled next to his ankles and Peter made a choked, wet sound as Deadpool's hand slid, remarkably gently, up the back of his neck and kept his head from toppling over. In a blur of motion too complex for Peter's attention to handle at the moment, Deadpool curled one arm around Peter's body and tossed an unconscious Claw over his shoulder with the other. Peter knew it wasn't Deadpool's fault, but every step made his ribs ache, so he was blissfully glad when Deadpool started up again... And he was also pretty sure Deadpool was doing it on purpose to distract him. 

 

"Aw, shucks, whatever for, gumdrop?" Deadpool drawled, laughter in his voice as he glanced down at Peter and used his non-mangled fingers to carefully adjust Peter's arm over his chest. "Of course I could handle a tiny small-fry like this dumbass. I wasn't gonna  _kill_ him, he just had to have the fear of God- also known as  _moi_... _Kidding_ , don't smite me, big guy -knocked into him." Deadpool hesitated for half a second before adding, this time with no laughter in his voice and something a bit somber, "Did you think I would have done it?" 

 

"Nah," Peter pried his eyes open, the tips of his fingers tapping gently against Deadpool's jaw and leaving bloody fingerprints. The muscle tightened under his fingers, Deadpool’s eyes trained on him unflinchingly. "I'll always believe in you." 

 

The world devolved into a blur of pain and darkness again after that. He wasn't sure how it happened, but between one moment of consciousness and other, he found himself rejoining the real world when the sun, warm and heavy, pressed against his eyelids. 

 

“Mornin’, sunshine.” 

 

Something smelled good. Peter tentatively cracked his eyelids open, hands slightly slow on the uptake because, he quickly realized, they were tucked underneath a blanket. Not like the ratty one in his apartment that was less of a blanket and more of a piece of felt, but something thick and luxurious, draped heavily over him. It felt heavy enough to be weighted. His ribs felt sore, still, but they were bandages up, and he blushed at his own shirtlessness before hesitantly reaching his fingertips up to make sure his mask was still in place.

 

It was. 

 

“Mm,” he mumbled, squinting before very gingerly sitting about halfway up and casting a surreptitious look at his surroundings. The place was comfortably messy, with dangerous weapons and what looked like grenades contrasting almost hilariously with knickknacks like turtle statues and snow globes scattered all over the place apparently randomly. Peter smiled when he saw a cardboard box overflowing with Halloween decorations near the fireplace, full of fake spiders, webs, and little toy cauldrons. He should’ve figured that Deadpool would enjoy holidays.

 

“Do you give kids candy on Halloween?” He asked when Deadpool came into the room, and the merc outright laughed as he set a heavenly-looking stack of fluffy pancakes on the nightstand beside Peter. 

 

“Me? Oh, Spidey, I am the  _ultimate_ trick or treater,” he grinned, sitting on the edge of bed and gesturing at his own costume. “People flip shit when they see my costume, they think I’m the fucking best cosplayer of  _myself_. And candy! Candy, Spidey, candy! Sweet, sweet candy that’s overpriced as shit but free on Halloween, you can bet I ain’t sitting cooped up in here when I can get some of that chocolate goodness myself.” He flailed his arms excitedly, and Peter couldn’t help but giggle... and wince, ow. “Careful, honeybuns, you’re still recovering.” 

 

“Why not hand out candy?” Peter tilted his head, knitting his fingers together in front of his ribs, and Deadpool gave him a disbelieving look before letting out a soft chuckle that just made Peter a little sad.

 

“Oh come on, Spidey, ain’t nobody coming to this safe house to trick or treat. No parent wants me handing out candy to their little devils. You, on the other hand...” he grinned again, delighted. “I bet kids would just flock in lines to get candy from the city’s darlin’ little webslinger. I’d want to.”

 

Peter just stared at him, his eyes soft, and was suddenly overcome with a rush of affection, of... "Deadpool." 

 

The merc's arms dropped to his side. "Yeah, baby boy?" 

 

Blaming whatever he was about to do on a combination of probably painkillers, injury, and the aftereffects of a very long nap, Peter surged forward onto his palms and planted a warm, feather-light kiss against Deadpool's mask, over his mouth. "I'll go trick-or-treating with you this year." 

 

Deadpool was still underneath Peter, unmoving, for just a moment... and then Peter closed his eyes as one of the merc's gloved hands slid up along his neck, cupping his cheek.

 

"Spidey, you..." Deadpool sounded  _wrecked_. "You can't... It's not ...  _I'm_ not." 

 

Scrambled though his brain was, Peter was able to put together all of Deadpool's concerns through the word snippets he was hearing. He shook his head, tilting his head sideways slightly to nuzzle against Deadpool's fingers as they threaded through a few sloppy pieces of his hair at the nape of his neck, under his mask. 

 

"Kiss me, Deadpool," he whispered, and this time, fortunately, he didn't have to ask twice.

 

"Wade," Deadpool murmured in a breathless rush, rolling his mask up just under his nose before pressing his mouth hard against Peter's, firm and a little bit raw, and Peter, punch-drunk, made a sound halfway between a moan and a sigh into Deadpool's mouth. 

 

"Wade," he echoed, breath hitching as Wade's hands moved up and along Peter's injured ribs until his leather-clad fingers were tucked under Peter's chin to draw him into another kiss. "Wade,  _Wade_ ," he whined, arousal coiling tight and hot in his stomach as he trailed his fingers over the exposed skin that Wade was actually revealing. To  _him_. He had no idea how he hadn't recognized the signs of being  _head over heels_  before that moment, but as he tossed caution to the wind and nipped eagerly at Wade's plush, lower lip, he realized he was, in fact, very much enamored. 

  

 

"Fuck's sake, Webs," Wade groaned, sliding his palms down over Peter's hips, over and over like he couldn't get enough of him, of his body, and Peter shivered from head to toe at every reverent touch. "I can barely control myself around you on a good day, if you..." He trailed his lips over Peter's neck, nipping just beneath his jawline and leaving tiny, tingling sparks sizzling on Peter's skin like water on burning asphalt. Peter wrapped his fingers tightly into small fists against Deadpool's chest, arching his head back and showing off the slope of his neck because whatever Deadpool was doing was driving him  _crazy_. "I'm just sorry that you have to see any of my skin, to be honest, because that is seriously  _such_ a boner-killer-" 

 

“Stop it,” Peter scolded, parting his lips as gently trailed his fingertips over the pockmarks of Wade’s skin. “It doesn’t matter to me, Wade, it-“ he keened as Wade managed to nip a  _very_ sensitive spot. Which happened to be most of his... Spots. “I want  _all_ of you.”

 

Wade made a strangled sound against his neck, but laced his fingers tight with Peter’s before kissing him once more. This one was different- something softer, a bit more chaste... protective. "God, Webs, if only you knew." 

 

And that, Peter figured, was when he realized how gone he was for Wade. 

  

 

\---

"Fridge re-stocked, heater still rattling on, and Indian... Bought. Now, I know I rarely deviate from Mexican, buuuuut-" Deadpool shrugs as he drops down onto the couch with a hearty thump. "This place is  _bomb,_ and they have these-" He clears his throat. "Paneer tacos with this in _sane_ avocado cream sauce, and so, just a couple times, I'm making an exception. It's good to culturally expose and all that jazz." 

"I love Indian," Peter mumbles, taking a large bite out of the crunchy, tortilla-cocooned paneer while his stomach gurgles in delight. "Thanks, Deadpool." 

"What else am I good for, sugar?" Deadpool winks, or as well as he can, and Peter rolls his eyes around his mouthful of taco. "Holy  _shit_ this is so good. Rani knows me by name and she says it in the  _cutest_ little way, calls me Mr. Deadpool and everything. I told her she doesn't have to, but she's very customer-service oriented and I'm pretty sure since I told her I was  _kiiinda_ a hero now that she's been giving me extra paneer. I'll take  you sometime," he booms cheerfully, filling up the tired, quiet space withso many words. "By the way, you look like shit." 

He tacks it on bluntly, and it's such a sharp turn that Peter almost chokes on a cube of paneer. 

"Huh?" he asks, mouth full, and then blushes and swallows before wiping a smudge of sour cream away from the corner of his mouth. "I- I haven't been sleeping, well. I'm also really worried about Spider-Man, because..." He trails off, a flush creeping along his cheekbones as he rubs the back of his neck; something about verbalizing how worried he is about himself feels ... Awkward. "Yeah.”

  
The sound of crunching stops. Deadpool looks at him for a moment, and Peter fidgets underneath the masked gaze. 

  
"Spidey wouldn't want you to worry so much about him," Deadpool says after a moment, in an odd tone of voice... Like he's challenging Peter, almost. "He's your friend, and he's a hero. A sexy, sexy hero," he adds, this time in a lighter tone and with a dark little grin that sends a shiver up and down Peter's spine. "He would want you to sleep more than thirteen minutes. And eat," he tips his chin toward the taco and licks at his fingers, and Peter makes a face. 

"Ew, Deadpool," he whines, flicking a piece of shredded lettuce at the merc. "Your hands are probably bloody and- and covered with-!" he squeals when Deadpool wiggles his fingers in his direction and grabs a rolled up piece of naan bread to whack at them. "Begone, heathen." 

"You are so... Much like him." Deadpool says all of a sudden, lowering his hand slowly, and his gaze feels heavy on Peter.  _Heck._ "That wholesome, slice-of-America sweetheart vibe, I figured it was just a Cap thing and then. Him." 

It's so weird to hear Deadpool talk about Spider-Man like that, in that cautiously reverent tone that makes Peter  _melt._ He talks about Spider-Man like he thinks he'll never be enough for him, never be good enough for him, never even get to a point where he can be around him. 

He clears his throat to make the ache go away. "Forget him for a second," he declares, and Deadpool's head snaps up in surprise. "I mean, yeah, he's my friend, but! You both talk about each other pretty much the same amount. He's always... Going on about you too, so... yeah." Peter shifts, crossing his legs and ducking his head when Deadpool's eyes feel like too much. "You both are stupid," he says affectionately.

"I-" Deadpool is actually  _wordless._ Fortunately (more so for him than Peter), he gets a call and throws Peter an apologetic look before getting to his feet. "This motherfucker's been calling me non-stop," he bemoans, not bothering to even answer the phone before he's heading to the window. "I better get to doing what he wants, I owe him a ... favor." He winks almost salaciously at Peter, laughing when Peter just rolls his eyes again. "I know you're just going to be pressed up against the window for every minute I'm gone, but I'll be back again in a couple hours." He grins, and Peter shakes his head with a wry smile. 

"I'll try not to swoon too much," he says gravely, and Deadpool chuckles before clambering out of the window. Once Peter's clicked it closed, he presses a hand against his chest to try to calm his erratic heartbeat down, because it's too much, it's. Just too much. He doesn't know how he's supposed to keep the secret down from his... Well,  _lover,_ and that's not even considering how  _guilty_ he feels when he hears Deadpool talk about him like that,  _him._

Dimly, through his pining, he hears the door knock and makes his way over with a frown. He doesn't get a lot of guests to his apartment; maybe maintenance finally realized he was a resident in the apartments and belatedly sent someone to fix the heat? His hand's around the doorknob when his Spidey sense kicks in, and he freezes, on guard. 

"Who is it?" he asks after a moment, guarded, and a pleasant voice on the other side cheerfully responds,

"Pizza!" 

  
"Sorry, I- I didn't order pizza." Peter frowns, resting his head against the door and closing his eyes. There's silence on the other hand, not even the sound of feet shuffling. He doesn't smell pizza. This is  _wrong_. "I'm s-" 

  
He's cut off by the sound of his door crunching in, and he wobbles back as a fist smashes its way through the wood and into his sternum. He stumbles, shocked, and as he falls onto his ass, horror begins to register as he watches a figure, twisted up like a contortionist, work its way through the hole in his door, and straighten in front of him to its full height. There's an ear-splitting ringing, all of a sudden, and Peter makes a confused, hurt sound as he covers his ears to try to make it stop; it's penetrating, underneath his skull, and worse- crippling. 

There's no face to look at; the person is wearing a mask, all black with two tiny, perfectly round pinpricks of white where he assumes their eyes are, and through the shock, Peter is starting to realize just how  _screwed_ he is here.

This figure ... he's Watchman.

He's still sort of recovering, trying to get to his feet, and Watchman doesn't hold his punches. He comes at him hard and fast, hissing a soft laugh under his breath as he wraps his fingers tight around Peter's upper arm and yanks, in a direction that his arm  _shouldn't_ be going. Peter, senses jumbled from the horrific ringing, keens and doubles over as his arm flops uselessly at his side, and Watchman leans over him. 

"You just couldn't listen..." he hisses, low and cold like the very personification of a viper, and his hands wrap around Peter's throat and squeeze. Peter tries to move, thrashing underneath Watchman, and although that wretched ringing is driving him up a wall, he manages to tuck his feet close to his body and launch a powerful kick that sends Watchman stumbling back. He tries to crawl away, not sure which direction he's going or what his next move should even be, but as soon as he shakily gets to his feet he's all but thrown into his heater. 

Watchman is strong.  _Ridiculously_ strong. 

He groans when he hears the crunch over the heater under his back, Spidey sense all over the place and that. damn.  _ringing_ still pervading any sense of clarity he might have had, and Watchman's hand wraps tight around his throat again. 

"You had just one job, and it was to stay away from Deadpool. That's all you had to do, and instead... You shack up with him." Watchman laughs, disbelievingly, and Peter can hardly even hear or  _focus_ with that ringing. "Oh, do you like the sound? It's designed to render you relatively harmless." There's no way to see Watchman's mouth under the stretchy black fabric of his mask, but Peter can just  _tell_ that there's a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. "I can't hear it, since my hearing was damaged back when... Well." He shrugs. "I'll save my monologue for a different time." 

Peter's ears are starting to bleed. He can feel blood trickle gruesomely down his earlobes, and there's only a tiny reprieve for a different kind of pain when Watchman punches him in the ribs, hard enough that Peter hears a telltale, incredibly unpleasant crack. Peter gags, choking a little bit, and tries to press his good hand against one of his ears. 

"Maybe this will teach you a lesson," Watchman muses, and if there's one thing Peter is thankful for it's, pathetically, that Watchman is holding his punches. The way he tore through Peter's door with just his fist proved that he could do real damage; he's just waiting, holding back. For now. Peter's ... Afraid. He's terrified of what Watchman is planning on doing with him if he's not killing him, what he could be waiting for...

  
"Why?" he just wheezes, crying out when the frequency of that horrific ringing somehow increases. He can barely even hear Watchman anymore, instead entirely focused on the fact that his eardrums are going to explode, they're going to shatter and he's going to go  _deaf-_

Then it all goes blissfully silent. 

  
"I have much bigger plans for you,  _little spider_ _."_ Watchman whispers, removing his hand, and Peter crumples into a puddle across his kitchen floor. His limbs feel boneless, echoes of the ringing still reverberating in his ears, and he only very dimly registers Watchman's footsteps retreating out the door. 

Watchman. He's super strong and possibly a contortionist, his hearing damaged from some sort of event that gave him his super strength and ... Other abilities. And. He's got plans for Peter... And Peter wants to get up. He wants to get up and go after Watchman, he wants to get up and pull on his Spider-Man suit and get Deadpool and go after this  _asshole_ and he just. Has. To get to his feet. 

But he doesn't.

The heater isn't rattling anymore. 


	5. Subtlety? I Don't Know Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Another warning foooor a blowjob, which I'm sure nobody is upset about. Yes? Yes. The tags have been edited. 
> 
> Have something slightly not terrible before things get terrible again! There'll be plenty of monologuing explanations next chapter. Also, you're going to hate me at the end of this. I am sorry.

The sound of shattering glass jerks him awake, and Peter forgets his bad arm as it flops up in a very _pathetic_ defense. The first thing he notices, besides his dislocated shoulder, is that it's so goddamn cold in here. He's shivering all over, and it even hurts to do that much because one of his ribs definitely feels broken. 

 

"Peter." 

 

The voice sounds raw, but muffled. Peter realizes it's hard to hear thanks to the congealed blood cooling over his ears from earlier. Just the memory of the ringing induces nausea, and his fingers twitch slightly as he tries to curl up protectively... Not that he can do anything, really, so he doesn't know why he's even bothering. This is ingrained in him.

 

"Peter," the voice repeats, tight and just as raw as before, and Peter whimpers as a hand curls against his cheek gently. Oh. _Oh_. Leather gloves, he... Yeah, he knows this hand. Deadpool's here. He can relax, just a little, maybe...

 

His arm is jostled, and he cries out.

 

"Fuck, _fuck_ , I'm sorry, I didn't know your..." Deadpool stumbles for a second, knuckles clenched tight against Peter's jaw, and Peter hums a little whimper as he manages to fully open his eyes this time. He winces at the fluorescent light, and his senses, trying to recover, are still in _overload_ mode. The light is too much, the cold is _even_ more, and Peter's teeth are clicking together from how cold it is in his apartment. 

 

"I'm c-cold," he half-sobs, half-pleads, and both of Deadpool's hands press against his cheeks.

 

"I know, sweetheart," Deadpool just sounds a little sad now, but his entire body is tense, _so_ tense. Peter can feel him shaking underneath him in an attempt to hold his own fury back, trying to stay gentle so he doesn't freak Peter out. "I know you're cold, the fucker that did this took the damn heater out."

 

"With me," Peter wheezes, ever the joker, and the sound that leaves Deadpool is more animalistic than human. "I'm so c-c-cold, Deadpool." His teeth chatter almost uncontrollably at this point, and he hears Deadpool move away for a moment. He's soon gently swaddled in several blankets, which helps, before Deadpool carries him over to his lumpy bed. A pretty great step-up from the knobbly, bubbled linoleum in his kitchen, if Peter's being entirely honest.        

 

"Better?" Deadpool asks gently, moving the blankets down just enough to get a look at Peter's injuries. 

 

"Mhm.." Peter curls his freezing toes into his blanket and shifts, turning his gaze away from the light above his bed. Soon... Soon, he's going to tell Deadpool that he can't hang out with him anymore, or his secret, he _will_. He has to... "Did you break my window, 'Pool?" he asks after a moment, frowning at the glass littered over the floor. 

 

"I saw your fucking legs sprawled out behind the counter and a hole the size of Hulk's balls in your fucking door, Peter, so yeah, I broke your window," Deadpool explodes, but just as quickly reigns himself back in. "Sorry- _sorry_." He's walking tension, rage thinly veiled in his voice as he abruptly unsheathes Bea. Or Arthur. One of them. "I'm not mad at you- _obviously_. You and Spidey, the two of you, you-" Deadpool shakes his head, buries his gloved hand in Peter's thick, messy hair and turns his head to get a look at his ears, properly. "You are fucking driving me crazy," he says, and Peter makes a sound like an aborted little gasp. 

 

"Okay," Deadpool continues, pulling back. He's _pissed_. More pissed than Peter's ever seen him, but then again, Deadpool must figure that whoever did this went after a 'normal civilian.' To him, Peter's probably just some oversensitive, weak civilian who gets cold easily and can barely defend himself. "Here's what we're going to do. Clean your ears, reset your shoulder, bandage your ribs. No. That'll make it harder to breathe, no, we'll... Well, maybe gently? Yeah," Deadpool mumbles, and Peter knows he's gonna have a hard time explaining his more than capable healing factor, so he just stays quiet. 

 

After that, there's thankfully time for Peter to rest his eyes for a moment as Deadpool uses what feels like a wet Q-tip to clean the blood out. Finally, he can hear properly, and what was muffled before is now far more clear. Deadpool murmurs things underneath his breath, not exactly sweet nothings but more like an endless stream of chatter to make Peter feel better and distract him while he's working.

 

"I wish I could be mad at him, at- At Spidey," he murmurs at one point as Peter's tuning back in to what he's saying. "He'd probably be here for you, if he could. I can't fucking even imagine why he..." He lowers his hands and casts Peter an indecipherable look, his shoulders slumping. "We're going to have to set your shoulder, honey." 

 

Peter's heart rate pitches up into something panicked, and he gives Deadpool a bit of a pleading look as the other undoes his belt. 

 

"It's gonna hurt like a bitch, but you can bite down on this." Deadpool doesn't sugarcoat it, which Peter supposes he's at least a little thankful for. "Or Bea's hilt, or my fingers, or anything, really." 

 

"Belt," Peter croaks, closing his eyes as the leather rests over his lips. He parts his mouth, closing his teeth over the leather and squeezing his eyes shut as he feels Deadpool's fingers brush over his shoulder. He'll never, ever get used to this, never ever ever ever-

 

"Three, two, _one_." Deadpool doesn't wait until after _one_ , instead snapping Peter's shoulder back into place right on the _one_ itself, and Peter keens around the belt at the rush of white-hot pain that precedes cool, tingling relief. He sniffles, and Deadpool trails his thumb over the arch of Peter's cheekbone to wipe away any reflexive tears before taking his belt back. "You're good, Peter, you... You're good to go. Go on, rest." He urges, and Peter, too tired to rebel and beg Deadpool to go before things get even worse, obeys.

 

\--

 

He wakes up on a panic attack, each breath sharp and rattling in his lungs. The breaths scrape over his broken rib, leaving him making odd wheezing sounds as he flails his hand around to find his light.

 

He doesn’t quite make it, but light floods the room anyway, and Deadpool’s there. Peter promptly finds himself tucked against the merc's body. Deadpool is really warm, he’s making little shushing sounds, and he smells weirdly good, even if weirdly good means a janky combination of blood, leather, and gunpowder.

 

“It’s okay, Pete, Petey, I got you,” he promises in a low, gentle rumble, and Peter cracks his eyes fully open and blinks tears away from his eyelashes.

 

“Mhm,” he huffs, his voice a bit throaty and anxious. “Th.. thanks, Pool,” he adds in a crackly whisper, his head spinning as he tries to pull away and reorient himself. Deadpool's just _looking_ at him. It's a look that Peter recognizes, he _knows_ it well, but... Only usually directed at Spider-Man. 

 

"I found some things while you were sleeping," Deadpool says, low and careful, and Peter's staring at his face and doesn't, at first, understand what Deadpool just said. Then. It sinks in. For a moment there's blaring chaos in his head, fear and panic because what if Deadpool found something that exposes him as Spider-Man? He has no idea what bets are on and off, what he's allowed to say and what he isn't, and if the terms have somehow changed. He feels like they have. Whatever Watchman did... It wasn't necessarily about Deadpool, Peter realizes. It was about showing Peter that he was stronger... _Oh_. 

 

It was about proving a point. 

 

Deadpool's rattling something in his palm, and Peter's brought out of his reverie... And subsequent panic. He jerks a little bit, the color slowly draining out of his face and heart clawing its way up his chest and into his throat when he sees what's in Deadpool's hand.

 

Bugs. A lot of bugs. There must be at least eight in Deadpool's hand, along with tiny cameras and mics. 

 

Peter feels like he could probably pass out.

 

"I used some tools to do a sweep while you were asleep," Deadpool says in this odd, extremely restrained tone, as if trying not to startle Peter. Maybe he still thinks Peter's just some civvie that got unfortunately caught up in Spidey's shit? "This may not even be everything." He drops the bugs in a pile of metal on Peter's bed before looking up at him. 

 

"What the _fuck_ is going on." He says after a moment, no preamble, and narrows his eyes when Peter's shoulders draw in tight. "I did some thinking while you were asleep, and here's what I can figure out... Well, with some help from White and Yellow," he tacks on almost conversationally, now pacing, agitated back and forth in front of Peter. "Spidey goes off the board. He thinks he's being watched, he's freaked out, and. When he called. I made sure to check on his location? The Daily Bugle," Deadpool points at Peter, whose face goes slack. "Bingo, Petey-sweetie, _you_ work there. And then. I come to check in on you, and you're the _only_ one Spidey's been contacting, and you've got the same air of I'm-too-pure-and-wholesome-for-my-good and you sound _exactly_ like him, like you've been spending an _awful_ long time around him..." 

 

_This is it,_  Peter thinks hysterically. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

 

"How long have you two been together?" Deadpool blurts out.

 

"What?" _What?_

 

"I mean, just look at the two of you," Deadpool waves his hand frantically at Peter and what must be an imaginary Spider-Man, Peter supposes. "No _wonder_ you two fell for each other, I'm not _mad_. I'm just guessing that whatever shit Spidey's got himself into, they must have come after you because he likes you? And beating you up. That must have been a warning, right? I mean..." Deadpool's back to pacing, and Peter just sits there in stunned silence. "I've seen people in relationships, you know, becoming _basically_ the same person... But you two are just." Deadpool groans. "I can't get between _that_. _"_

 

"Stop- Stop it!" Peter blurts out, holding his hands up. "Deadpool. You're _great_ , but that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Spider-Man and I are just friends. He likes _you_." 

 

"Then why isn't he talking to me?" Deadpool asks, flatly. "If he's really in danger.... Then why can't he trust me enough to tell me?" 

 

It's true. Peter ... has no idea what he's doing. As of now, he has no idea what's on limits and off-limits. He can't imagine that Watchman _actually_ wanted him to stay away from Deadpool; Watchman must have just needed an excuse to beat the crap out of him. And... He must have something colossal planned, if he needs Spider-Man out of the way _that_ badly. He can't imagine that, after all of this, Watchman would just randomly release Peter's secret.... Something he seems to like dangling over Peter's head as something only he knows. Peter doesn't realize it at first, but his hands are shaking with rage at being manipulated and toyed with. 

 

"I don't know," he finally admits, truthfully. 

 

Deadpool's shoulders slump, and they just look at each other for a moment. "Fine," the merc says after a moment, then points at Peter's backpack and laptop. "While you were asleep and _after_ I crushed all the bugs, I realized you can't fucking stay here anymore. You're going to get beat up again, and I don't know if I can handle that fucking heart attack again. So. You're going to be shacking up at one of my safehouses with me until I can find Spidey, sexily threaten him to tell me what the fuck is going on, and deal with all of this." Deadpool waves his hand at Peter's body.

 

"I ca-" Peter starts, but it's just too much. There's still a hole in his door, the heater is broken so he's _still_ freezing, even under the blankets, and Watchman's already invaded a space he'd felt safe in. _Suck on this, asshole,_ he thinks vehemently, wondering for a moment if he ... really is worried about Watchman revealing his identity. He'd just have to play this game ... And see if Watchman's so-called 'plans' for him override his need to reveal Peter's identity to the world. "Yeah, okay." 

 

Deadpool opens his mouth immediately, probably ready to argue upon Peter's denial, and then just looks surprised. Before nodding. "Okay, good. Can I?" he asks, holding his arms out, and Peter jerkily nods his head. It's weird that the merc is asking, because... If he were Spidey, he'd just be scooped up at a moment's notice. It's _weird_. Deadpool's arm is firm around his body, and Peter wraps his arms around Deadpool's neck and gingerly moves in an close as possible without putting too much pressure on his rib.

 

His teeth are chattering again. 

 

_It's a good thing I'm Spider-Man_ , he idly realizes as he hears Deadpool shove his laptop and charger into his backpack haphazardly. _Or else I would be really jealous of myself right now._

 

Deadpool picks up a few more things- his toothbrush, hairbrush, and other essentials -and Peter's pretty positive his suit is folded in a neat square at the bottom of his backpack, so once Deadpool sweeps up the glass and shards of wood and makes sure there aren't any valuables sitting out, they're off. Peter knows he should be more worried about leaving his apartment looking like that, but Deadpool reassuringly and _very_ vaguely tells him that maintenance and his landlord won't be trouble. He should be more upset about that, really. 

 

He's already been to Deadpool's place, as Spider-Man, and the place doesn't look all that much different. Deadpool's bed is warm- "Memory foam, baby boy. I don't like being forgotten." -and Peter smiles to himself when he sees, instead of Halloween decorations everywhere, the beginnings of a Christmas explosion. A tree that is, in all honestly, slightly too big for the space, is shoved tightly into one corner next to the fireplace, and haphazardly covered in ornaments, candy canes, and ... 

 

Peter blushes. That is _definitely_ a picture of Spider-Man's ass, in an ornament, on Deadpool's tree.

 

"What?" Deadpool follows his gaze and _smirks_ , wide and proud. The expression makes Peter's stomach dip, but not unpleasantly. "Oh, yeah. Did you see my tree topper?" He tips his head proudly, and Peter blushes even more when he sees a Spider-Man figurine perched where an angel ordinarily would be.

 

" _Why_?" he asks, because _why?_

 

"Because he's my wholesome lil angel," Deadpool says simply, so honest and unabashed that Peter _melts_. That's it. He can't take it anymore, he's just going to tell Deadpool what's going on. "But I doubt he'll get to see it, this year." 

 

"What do you mean?" Peter asks anxiously, and Deadpool just gives him a hollow look that he can somehow see through the merc's mask. 

 

"I have no idea where he is," Deadpool admits. "And he won't tell me. He hasn't talked to me for a while, now. Sure, he's talking to me _through_ you, but." Deadpool's fingers curl. "I've tried so hard to be _good_ , you know, for his sake? But he still doesn't trust me, he..." Deadpool sounds _lost_ , and Peter's chest hurts so _badly_ , and he knows it has nothing to do with his rib. "Is it worth it, continuing ... To be good? Without him?" 

 

" _Yes_ ," Peter says, all of a sudden pissed. "Of course it's worth it, it- You being good doesn't have anything to do with him. It _shouldn't_. _I mean_ , if something were to happen to him, you can't just- just go back to killing, after all the progress. If he's gone, you can't just _give u-"_ His words freeze in his throat at the look Deadpool is giving him. 

 

It's. Different. Even at his angriest, Peter doesn't think Deadpool's ever looked at him like that.

 

"What do you mean," Deadpool says, in a terrible voice that Peter would give anything never to hear again, "If he's gone?" 

 

He stands, and Peter's overcome with the sudden urge to roll over, toward the window next to the bed, and flee for his life. "Because if you know something that I don't... And if you haven't told me that something's happened to him," Deadpool says, making his way very slowly toward Peter, the merc's eyes fixed unflinchingly his own, "Then, Peter, I won't be able to control whatever happens next." There's this lilt to Deadpool's voice that's almost... Hollowly cheery, but it doesn't fool Peter. Not for one second.

 

He realizes, with a sort of eerie peace, that it’s now. It has to happen now. 

 

"Won't you surprise me with tacos, sometime?" Peter whispers. It's one of their code phrases. 

 

Translation: _I'm in trouble._  

 

It takes a second. Deadpool closes his eyes. 

 

Translation: _Help me, Deadpool._

 

"Mother _fucker_ ," Wade whispers, and Peter only manages to close his eyes before all 200 and some pounds of pure _muscle_ presses up against him, pinning his wrists tightly against the headboard of the bed with one hand. "You fucking little _asshole_ ," Wade hisses, shoving his mask up roughly before pressing a kiss so hard against Peter's mouth that his limbs all but turn into spaghetti. "I almost _fucking_ killed you." 

 

"I can bench press a truck, Wade. I think I can take you," Peter jokes weakly, barely managing a breathy gasp when Wade's tongue presses against his own. One of Wade's hands slides forcefully up against Peter's hip, along his uninjured ribs, and _squeezes_. The noise Peter makes at this point is just _embarrassing_. 

 

"You won't be able to bench press shit when I'm done with you," Wade growls, and it goes straight to Peter's crotch, honestly. He pants a little, breathlessly, and by now a red flush creeps high along his cheekbones and neck. "Fuck's sake, I thought _I_ was having an identity crisis. You're so hot, Webs, you are so. _fucking hot_. I mean," Wade waves his hand helplessly, taking a break from being stupidly, unfairly sexy to instead be a giant sweetheart. Peter's head spins. "Best case scenario," Wade groans, biting down on that spot just under Peter's jaw that drives him _wild_. 

 

"W-Wade," he squirms, and he _knows_ he's generally strong enough to push Wade off, but right now, he's about as powerful as a toddler. "Oh, my god, Wade, _please_." He doesn't even know what he wants, all he knows is that he's incredibly responsive to that sinful thing Wade is doing with his teeth, oh _hell_ - 

 

"Wade, wait," he blurts off, actually exercising some of his strength to push Wade back. He knows how he probably looks- flushed and wild-eyed, sex hair all over the place -and Wade twitches like he can't believe he's just been interrupted. "... Can you... I mean, if you..." He doesn't know why he suddenly feels awkward. "... Please ... Take off your mask?"

 

Wade doesn't move for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is cautiously resigned. There's something a little hopeless there, too. Peter hates it. "When you see it, you'll..." 

 

"Love you just as much as I already do," Peter finishes, sliding his fingers up along Wade's exposed jaw, fingertips pressing slightly underneath the rolled up mask. "You're the same Wade. _My_ same Wade." 

 

Wade's shoulders slump. He lifts his hands, hesitating, before rolling up the rest of his mask and dropping it, resigned, onto the floor beside the bed. ".... Scream all you have to, get it out of the way." he jokes weakly. 

 

Based on what Peter had seen of Wade's chin and jaw, the rest of him is... Almost exactly what he expected. The same scars, twisted and rough, indent the rest of Wade's face, along his cheekbones, over his head... everywhere. "Definitely not scream-worthy," he says, rolling his eyes before cupping Wade's cheeks and drawing him in for a small kiss against his nose. " _This_ is what you were worried about? Why? I can finally see your eyes,” he says, just ... in love. In _love_. 

 

Wade doesn’t say anything. His eyes, bright blue, are openly pained.

 

“C’mere, you dork,” Peter wraps his arms around Wade’s neck, pulling him in tight as he plants a full, open-mouthed kiss on Wade’s mouth. “I can hear you angsting, stop it.” He whispers into the other’s ear, moving Wade’s hand down his thigh and squeezing. “It’s not nearly as sexy when I’m making you touch me, you know.”

 

There’s a sound between a choke and a groan coming from low in Wade’s throat, and the merc stares at him for a moment before shaking his head. “How the _fuck_ didn’t I put two and two together?” He says plainly, looking bewildered and annoyed with himself. “Wait ...” he closes his eyes, thumb brushing over Peter’s ribs. “Little spiders should eat more,” he says softly, his voice low with a slight ache to it. “And the cold, because ...”

 

“Spiders, you know, they get cold,” Peter swallows. “I didn’t want to be pitied,” he admits, arching his neck back again as Wade nips once more at it. He’s overcome with this urge to be completely marked up and down by Wade’s teeth, not entirely a new fantasy. 

 

“Oh, Webs,” Wade moves down his body, nipping at his hip, at the sharp angle of bone. “Honey, no. I’m not pitying you, I’m scared as fuck for you.” Peter curls his fingers against Wade’s head, presses his nails into the inside of his fists so he doesn’t hurt the merc, and Wade’s thumbs slide down against his hips, pushing Peter’s ratty old jeans down to about mid-thigh. “I can’t believe you froze your ass off in that apartment under those _shit_ blankets. Not to sound like a white knight or something but if I’d known, there’s no _way_ I’d have let you fucking freeze to death. That would be, like, the least heroic way to go, hypothermia in your apartment.” 

 

“I wasn’t going to get hypothermia,” Peter snorts, the sound quickly veering into a sharp squeak when Wade bites his inner thigh, oh  _Jesus_ that’s another sensitive spot. His rib aches from the movement, but it’s almost _therapeutic_. He tries to adjust and ends up resting his legs on Wade’s shoulders to get comfortable, which leads to Wade making a sort of dreamy sound. 

 

“Oh my god. Spidey’s thighs are wrapped around my face,” he sighs, and Peter manages to roll his eyes one more time before Wade lightly presses his teeth against the outline of Peter’s dick against his underwear.

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter whimpers, hand flailing awkwardly before smacking at the headboard. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, because now would be a really bad time to accidentally exert some of that super strength, so he just curls his fingers right into one of Wade’s down pillows and _grips_. 

 

“I could die happy right now,” Wade muses, tugging Peter’s underwear down before closing his lips around Peter’s dick. Peter’s head falls back _hard_ against the pillow as he moans, and he manages to clamp his hands on Wade’s shoulders as he tries to hang on, somehow. He’s almost stupidly sensitive right now, and Wade just _talking_ sends shivers running up and down his spine and he’s crazy turned on right now and- 

 

Wade does this thing with his tongue and Peter’s eyes just about roll back. He makes this sinful, _sinful_ sound, the decadent lovechild of a moan and a gasp, and a full body shiver trembles through Wade’s body when he hears it.

 

“Jesus Christ on a fucking stick, Webs,” Wade says, the words almost guttural. “ _Please_ make that sound again.” He takes Peter down all the way this time, and the head of Peter’s dick all but nudges the back of Wade’s throat, holy _shit_. He sucks, the flat of his tongue pressed to the underside of Peter’s dick, and Peter _keens_ and tightens his thighs against Wade’s head.

 

It literally takes Wade about two more minutes of sucking, his teeth very slightly pressed against the head of Peter’s dick, for Peter to come with a quivering little whimper down Wade’s throat. He trembles for a minute, wet little gasps in his throat as he looks down and meets Wade’s eyes.

 

“Holy shit, Spider-Man just came down my throat,” Wade whispers, effectively ruining the moment. 

 

Peter tries to catch his breath as he falls back, and he feels Wade gently adjusting his legs back into a comfortable position before lying down next to him.

 

“Hey, Spidey-baby,” Wade asks softly, catching Peter off-guard with his tone and a comforting hand sliding over his stomach. It’s warm against his skin. “Who’s threatening you?”

 

Peter closes his eyes. “A guy from my work,” he whispers. “Named Greg. He got a video of me changing into my suit. He’s been threatening me ... Well, Spider-Man, to stay underground, but...” Peter’s embarrassed that he’s starting to sound a little choked up. Wade’s thumb strokes circles over his hipbone gently, and it feels like  _just right_. “He’s not the main one. The main guy is this... this..” Peter sniffles, swallowing back what he’s pretty sure are horrified tears. Watchman just beat the crap out of him, he feels like he’s a bit entitled. “He’s like a contortionist... but he’s super strong, a-and ... he smashed a hole through my door.”

 

“Motherfucker,” Wade whispers, and his hand tightens around Peter’s hip. “But ... _why?”_ He asks, puzzled, leaning in to rest his head against Peter’s. “I mean ... what could have changed between ...” Peter feels Wade go very, very still next to him, and he knows the merc has figured it out. “Me,” Wade says, with a hint of that tone that Peter hates, “you were getting too close to me.”

 

Peter shakes his head, turning rest his lips against Wade’s forehead. “It’s not your fault, babe. I thought Watchman came for- that’s what I call him, since he keeps an eye on me, I guess -me because of that, yeah, but then. I realized he just wanted to do it to show me he can.” Peter swallows, a flush of burning anger rushing to his cheeks. “He wanted me to be _afraid_. Weak. He.” Peter’s hand shakes as he pulls his jeans back up and gets to his feet, needing to pace off the energy. “He wanted to show me what he could do. But _why_? Because ...” Peter looks up, meets Wade’s wary expression. “Because. _Because_.” There has to be a piece missing, there .. “He wanted Spider-Man gone _because_ ...” 

 

“You would stop him?” Wade frowns, and Peter shakes his head. His stomach curls unpleasantly.

 

“Yes, but...” Peter stares at Wade’s door. “He was showing off because... because... because, oh my god.” Realization sets in swiftly and brings along a cold rush of panic. “Because he has more where that came from. Because Spider-Man is the only one who could do anything about it, so he needs Spider-Man underground.” 

 

“What about me? Or ...” Wade’s frowning, disconcerted. “I mean, no offense or anything, but ...”

 

“Because they don't have anything to hold over you,” Peter realizes. “No secret identity or anything, you make it so obvious. You don’t have anything to hide. But me ... no. No, that doesn’t make sense.” Peter resumes pacing, feet scuffing the floor as he spins on his heel. “No, there’s something missing. He has something against me. He said he had big plans for _me_. He must ... know me. Somehow.”

 

Wade opens his mouth to say something, but Peter’s Spidey sense suddenly takes over, electric and jarring along his spine. He looks around wildly, but the window is still locked, there’s no one outside. 

 

“Wade,” he croaks, smacking his hand against the nearest flat surface and leaning in. Wade’s behind him, hands hovering over him, saying something reassuring about how no one can find them here... 

 

Peter’s eyes land on his backpack. The backpack that had been there, unattended, that neither of them had checked, that had followed them all the way to Wade’s place. The backpack that someone could have easily meddled with. Wade must not have seen anything in his haste to put Peter's things inside... Peter all but tears his backpack open, using far more strength than he needs to, and his heart climbs all the way into his throat before plunging deep into his stomach. 

 

A canister rolls out, clinking down onto the hardwood floor, and Peter meets Wade’s eyes just as it begins to hiss.

 

_It smells sweet_ , is Peter’s last coherent thought. 


	6. Oh, It's That Guy (Whoops)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens. The tags have been updated! Thanks for all the comments, y'all are the BEST.

He wakes up decidedly alone, and unfortunately, Wade's voice is nowhere to be heard this time.

 

 

Instead. His arms are stretched above his head, cuffed to a hook in the ceiling of this dank-ass looking basement he's trapped in. Peter muzzily takes inventory of that, aware that he's still semi-drugged to the gills and won't be pulling any feats of superhuman strength for a couple minutes yet. He can touch the ground when he presses the tips of his toes to the grey concrete, relieving the weight his arms are carrying with a bit of effort.

 

It does _suck_ , though. 

 

"Morning, Peter." 

 

Someone, he realizes, has been watching him. His Spidey-sense is slow on the uptake right now, which he wholeheartedly blames when someone slithers into the room and he just stares blankly at him.

 

The guy spreads his arms, looking like he expects Peter to clap his hand to his forehead and go, "Drat! It's you! I should have known!" Instead, Peter just stares blankly at him, his toes arched down as he tries to maintain his balance. The man is fairly ordinary looking; there's something vaguely familiar in his heavyset eyes, in the messy nest of combed over dark hair. Peter feels like he's seen the face before, but he's not sure where, or how. 

 

"Where's Deadpool?" he asks, his voice wavering slightly as he tries to pull himself together and figure out what's going on. 

 

The man sighs, dropping his arms and looking almost unfairly disappointed, all things considered. "Really?" he asks angrily, sitting down at what looks like a desk in the corner of the room. There's a computer there, and a messenger bag covered with all sorts of nifty pins with obscure references. Peter's seen that bag before, at the Daily Bugle; it's Greg's. He also notices his webshooters next to the bag, which the man must have nicked from his backpack when he kidnapped Peter...

 

" _Where_ -" he begins again, as forceful as he can be with no Spidey suit and a stupid t-shirt that says _Warning: Choking Hazard_ with a picture of Darth Vader on it. Great. 

 

"I didn't fucking bring him," the guy snarls, and really, he's so average looking that it almost makes Peter mad. There's a slight accent to his words- _Russian_ , Peter realizes. "Why would I bring him? He can't die, he doesn't fucking shut up, and he'll just piss me off over and over until he escapes and kills me. I just shot him in the head to slow him down and brought you." 

 

The burn of rage that courses through Peter's veins wakes him up like coffee on steroids. He flexes his fingers. "You're going to regret that on, like, so many levels." He says, arching his toes again in discomfort. "I mean, he's gonna be _pissed_ , because you _killed him,_ and he just figured out my identity, and we were totally gonna have mind-blowing identity sex, which you _cockblocked_ , t-b-h. Most people aren't really into that." 

 

"Oh my god," the guy is looking at him like he can't figure out whether to shoot him or scream into the void. "No wonder you two hooked up."

 

"Dude," Peter says, just as pissed off as Wade no doubt is. "There's no point in you getting all pissy, because I _don't_ know who you are. You look like- I mean, you know those picture charts they made a couple years ago, where they showed the average faces from every nationality or whatever? You look like one of those average faces. Seriously, I wouldn't be able to pick you out in a crowd at _all_. You look like your name should be Bob Roberts or something." 

 

The guy just stares at him. "You are so fucking insufferable," he remarks, looking almost awed. He moves closer, and his movement this time is somehow ... Slimier, more sinuous. Peter, all of a sudden, remembers Watchman crawling into the hole in his door, twisting his body up... And then he realizes.

 

" _Oh_." 

 

Watchman (!) looks pleased. "You finally got it, huh? I mean, aren't you supposed to be smart? Like, a genius?" he asks dubiously. "I mean, you- What?" he asks, frowning at the pitying look on Peter's face. " _What?"_

 

"I mean..." Peter tips his chin toward Watchman, trying not to reveal how much his stomach is lurching at just the presence of the man. "I just... I realize now, why you wear a mask." he says, actually feeling kind of bad for the guy, who was so _intimidating_ in that all-black suit he was wearing the other day... 

 

"Shut the _fuck_ up," Watchman slaps him across the face, so hard that Peter feels blood almost instantly flood his mouth, _ow_. "It's not my fucking fault that comb-overs aren't in style, you little _shit_. I don't fucking care about my outward appearance, anyway... This," he holds up his mask, and Peter casts it a bleary glance. "This is who I am. This is what _Spider-Man_ did to me."

 

"Whoa whoa whoa," Peter notices he sounds a little muffled... Probably thanks to the blood. "What are you talking about? I don't even know you, how could I have-" He makes a helpless sound, and Watchman turns to face him. His eyes are dark enough to be black, in the dim light of the basement, and the way he stares at Peter causes his stomach to twist into knots. 

 

"Don't even know me," Watchman echoes, his tone wry and coldly amused. He drags the chair in front of Peter and sits down, staring up at him like he could peer right into Peter's soul and flip it inside out. "Of course you wouldn't... Because _you didn't care_ about what happened to me." He's idly flicking open and closing a pocket knife as he speaks, and each barely-audible click sounds like a gun being cocked in Peter's ears. "I used to live in Russia, you know, before we moved here." 

 

"Cool." Peter spits, his lips flecked red with blood. "Seriously, I'm on the edge of my seat, you absolute madman, you." 

 

"I can see you're not using context clues," Watchman says dryly. "Perhaps you know my siblings, then."

 

"I doubt it, dude," Peter says doubtfully, feigning boredom, but his stomach lurches when Watchman holds up two small, passport sized photos of two children he's become surprisingly close to, two children safely tucked away at the Avengers' Tower with Bruce Banner... Misha and Nikita. 

 

The two kids he'd saved from Mikhail.

 

"No..." He trails off, muted horror in his words, and Watchman spreads his arms as a slow, sick smile curls one corner of his mouth upwards. "You.. You can't be, I-"

 

"I am." Watchman says. "I am Mikhail's oldest son, Dmitri."

 

Peter just stares at him. "But I... No, that's..." He stumbles, his toes aching as he arches back up onto them. "I was _in_ that house. I didn't see you, I-- I don't understand. Where _were_ you?" he demands, croaking the words out in dismay. He... This _is_ his fault, all of this. If he'd known that Dmitri was in that house, he would've saved him, he ...  "I would have helped you," he says, low and urgent, and Watchman just laughs. It's an ugly sound, all coiled up with tension and something horribly bitter. 

 

"Oh, shut up," he scoffs, stepping forward slightly more into the dim light, and now Peter can make out ropes of scars that wind up and down Dmitri's arms, along with what look like cigarette burns and needle marks. His stomach turns at the plain display of abuse all over Dmitri, no doubt at Mikhail's hand. "You fucking _failed_ , Spider-Man. Do you understand that?" he spits, and Peter _knows_ he deserves the vitriol, but it doesn't make the pill any easier to swallow. "You left me to rot in the fucking cellar that you didn't check," he continues, his tone calmer now... But in an eerie, offhanded way that reminds Peter of when Wade's particularly upset about something and tries to detach from it, unsuccessfully. "Dearest _dad_ used to come by once or twice a week, give me something to eat or drink... Pump me full of his party cocktails..." Dmitri swipes at his arms absently. "He couldn't let me go. He knew I was capable of something... That I wasn't _normal_. I wasn't allowed to talk to my siblings... I only knew of them what he told me, when he was in a good mood. I only met Misha and Nikita twice... They wouldn't remember me." His voice pinches with something that Peter knows is pain. 

 

Peter feels ill. "I didn't know," he whispers, again, and it doesn't do anything for either of them. "I swear I didn't know you were in there," he pleads, the admission landing like a guilt-bound rock in the pit of his stomach. "I wouldn't have just left you there, I would have gotten you out, I-"

 

"Shut  _up! Shut up!"_ Dmitri flies into some sort of rage again, and Peter's world blurs into something clouded when the furious man's fist drives right back into his still-healing ribs. He swings back a good distance from the blows, gagging slightly, before trying to reorient. _May Parker. Wade Wilson. Tony Stark. Bruce Banner._ Bruce had showed him this method of grounding himself when he felt like he was starting to dissociate from pain- Going through the names of important people in his life, one by one, until his world begins to make sense again. 

 

"Don't you dare fucking zone out on me now," Dmitri is hissing when Peter brings himself back, his hand tugging hard enough at Peter's scalp to draw tears. "I'm not done with you yet." He steps back, his tone low and almost haunting in its accusation as he curls his hands into tight fists. "I screamed for _hours_. My father never came back. Nobody came. I was so. _Hungry_. And then it happened..." He uncurls his hands, lifting them to display them to Peter. 

 

"Nice hands," Peter chokes out, because God forbid he ever stops saying stupid shit when he's held captive. He also realizes that in his haste to get Misha and Nikita back through Deadpool, Mikhail must have abandoned his son in the cellar. 

 

"I realized if I wanted to live, I had to get free," Dmitri says demurely, hands dropping by his sides. "I had never tried to escape, because I was scared of my father... but I found I could contort myself enough to get out of the cell my father had set up down there. It was my first time seeing sunlight in years." He scoffs, then wanders toward the desk with Greg's backpack on it and picks something up. "I had to do some things to..." He grips whatever he's holding tight, and Peter tries to breathe around his ribs, hoping he hasn't punctured a lung. "To get food. Things I wasn't proud of... With the new strength I must have gotten. And then..." He smiles, and it's horrific. Peter flinches. "I came home... Because I didn't know where else to go. I searched for anything to sell, to _eat_... and who comes in but your little friend. Deadpool," he spits, crunching the paper he's holding in his hand down to a ball. "I hid- of course -and I heard him talking to himself, sayin' _Spider-Man_ came through and rescued Misha and Nikita... Talkin' about how he was gonna kill my dad for having him go after you..." 

 

The timeline is starting to make sense. This must have been after Deadpool realized Peter had saved Misha and Nikita. 

 

"You took them away..." Dmitri snarls, and Peter's gut twists again. His Spidey sense won't shut up. "They were my only ... only chance for some semblance of _normal_. They were like me and you took them _away_." He looks downright rabid, but only just manages to reign himself back. "No matter. I'll find them..."

 

Peter has so _many_ questions. He doesn't know where to start. "How did you find Greg?" he asks after a moment, warily. 

 

"Child's play," Dmitri snorts, throwing the crumpled ball at Peter's feet. He realizes it's a news article about Spider-Man... _Photography by Peter Parker._ Shit. "I was going to come find you, the foremost confidante of Spider-Man... His own personal photographer... To try to wrangle Spider-Man's location out of you. I get to the Daily Bugle and I hear Greg blabbing to someone on the phone about how he knows Spider-Man's identity..."

 

Stupid, stupid Greg.

 

"And better... He's got it on video." Dmitri sneers. "Then it's just promising him fame and fortune and plenty of money if he just listens to me. He's ... Very susceptible." 

 

Peter shifts, glaring at Dmitri. "What was the point of this?" he rasps icily, trying to sound threatening... It doesn't really work. "Why blackmail me? Why make Spider-Man disappear? And then why kidnap me, it just doesn't make sense!" his voice pitches high with frustration.

 

"I'm _getting_ there!" Dmitri growls. "There's a fucking process, dumbass. I reveal myself, you freak out because you never expected me to be some guy you fucking left to rot in a ditch, and then I tell you my evil plan! It's like you've never fucking seen a movie." He curses in low Russian before running a hand over his comb over.

 

"Well excuse me if I'm not feeling particularly patient," Peter spits, and Dmitri smiles, the movement causing his chapped lips to spread wide. It's not even really a smile as much as it is a sick grimace.

 

"It's so cute that you think all of this is temporary." Dmitri taps the side of his head. "I'd get comfortable, little spider. You see, I realized that... Beneath this tough and manly exterior, I am actually very... _lonely_." He says this in a different tone, but it's not reassuring. It's a bit dreamy, but ... Manic, almost. Peter can't place it, but his Spidey-sense doesn't calm down. "I want others _like_ me." 

 

Oh. Oh, no. No no no.

 

"No," Peter verbalizes, his eyes round with horror. "Dmitri, _no_. You don't understand, you can't just go around... Injecting people as you please with that mutant cocktail you have. That's not how you ..." He shakes his head. "There are mutants out there, plenty of .. Of _different_ folks to help you come to terms with, with-"

 

"Come to terms?" Dmitri sneers. "I've already come to terms with this. With everything. I don't care about that. I'm tired of being alone, I..." A wild look overcomes his features. "I have father's serum. I've been working on replicating it. I thought... _why not just keep Spider-Man out of the way by blackmailing him?_ But then I realized there's something _better_ than keeping you out of it." He steps closer and idly trails his thumb up and along Peter's exposed veins. Peter breaks out into full shivers. _"Involving you!"_ he says cheerfully, placing his hands on his hips and looking Peter up and down, and has it gotten cold in here or is that Peter's blood freezing? "Spider-Man's mutant blood is _just_ the kick my serum needs." His eyes gleam. "There's be so _many_ like me... I won't have to worry about hunger anymore, I... I'll get rich selling the serum to others." 

 

"Dmitri," Peter chokes out, just barely audible, "What the _hell_ do you think they're going to do with your serum? They're gonna inject it into... Personal militia, or..." He can't even fathom what's happening fast enough to come up with a possible solution. _Screw Mikhail_. "You won't have company, you'll just be contributing to... To deaths, thousands and thousands of deaths, a-and..."

 

"But how glorious they'll be," Dmitri smiles indulgently, like Peter's just some _idiot_ that doesn't understand how brilliant he is. "Weak humans put down, at the hands of so many _mutants_. And anyway, what has the world done for me?" His voice twists back into that ugly, bitter wreck, his expression hooded underneath heavy eyelids. "Nothing, that's what. I'll be glad to see it burn at the hands of mutants like me." Peter opens his mouth, but Dmitri steps closer threateningly enough that Peter just swallows his words back down so fast they scrape in his throat. "I'm going to go and check on the serum," he says cheerfully. "It must almost be ready for your blood. You hang tight, Peter." 

 

Peter's glad when Dmitri leaves, because a sort of invisible tension lifts, but who should come in but Greg. _GREG_. He's obviously been assigned to watch Peter. Peter is somehow angrier at Greg than he is at Dmitri; namely, he can _sort of_ understand Dmitri's frustration, especially considering how he was tortured at his father's hands for years and years. What Mikhail did to his kids almost makes Peter feel as if whatever Deadpool did to him is justified, for just one brief, ugly second. But he's got to pull his hero pants on and figure out how to deal with Dmitri, without killing him. But _Greg_. Greg is just an asshole, a self-serving, moral-lacking, pathetic sellout piece of shit and if Peter's channeling Deadpool to mentally call Greg every name he can think of, well, that's his problem. 

 

Greg has the audacity to smirk at Peter. "Long time no see, Parker." 

 

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Peter would flail his hands if he could only just move them. "You're a disgusting person, Greg, but y'know- isn't bio-terrorism a bit out of your _shit_ league?!" 

 

Greg just rolls his eyes. "It's not that deep. And I'm gonna be rich, just because of some video I took on my cellphone!" he says gleefully, then sits down at his computer. It must be on there, the video... If Peter could only just convince Greg to delete it, the stubborn bastard. He has to go about this differently... Or more differently than trying to appeal to Greg's morals (which, by the way, don't exist). 

 

"Say, Greg," he says in a tone that's borderline friendly, his toes tentatively propping his weight as he tries to make himself look as demure as possible. Greg frowns at him suspiciously, and Peter continues, still in a tone like he's coaxing a wild and particularly ugly animal to do something. "I was just thinking- You know, Dmitri is _really_ strong, isn't he?" 

 

"Yeah!" Greg boasts smugly, arching back in his chair and tilting it back like a sixth grader. "I mean, he beat the _shit_ out of you," he snickers, and Peter refrains from imagining ways to maim him. "Where'd all _your_ strength go, bug boy? Nah, he's the next big thing in town. And I'm his partner!" he says gleefully, booting up the computer. Peter's nose wrinkles when he sees a very questionable popup that Greg, who seems to possess negative shame, doesn't even bother closing out of.

 

"Yeah, so, I was thinking," Peter raises his eyebrows, tone still thoughtful. "I mean... Now that he's _got me_ , why does he need you and your video?"

 

Greg stills, the smile freezing on his face before he shakes it off. "What are you talking about?"

 

"Yeah, I mean... Before, he needed the video to keep me compliant." Peter shrugs. "But now he needs my blood, so it's not like he needs the video anymore. I mean, I'm here, and I'm chained up, so I kind of _have_ to be compliant. So seriously, why _does_ he need you?" Noticing Greg's discomfort, he plows on. "And I mean, if I wanted a lot of money, and I was like, a crazy strong supervillain who'd already kinda _killed_ people, then I'd ... I mean, sorry, Greg, I'd just _kill you_." 

 

The color has started to leech out of Greg's pudgy face. It's gratifying. "But... But your identity..." 

 

"You're an idiot, Greg." Peter says sharply, dropping the act and glaring at the other. "You're like, a _giant_ idiot. Once he gets my blood, he won't even need me anymore, and we're _both_ dead. And you know what else? At this point, reduced strength or not, I'm like your _only_ hope. You know I'm right." Peter leans in as much as he can, narrowing his eyes at his squirming, somewhat terrified coworker. "When he gets my blood and makes his serum, he's alone in this. It's his serum, his prerogative... His money." 

 

"But-" Greg's mouth opens and closes, and he looks like his entire worldview is being rearranged.

 

"Dude, seriously?" Peter hisses, and Greg's mouth snaps shut. "No buts. Delete your stupid video and follow my instructions, or the second Dmitri takes my blood, he's going to snap your neck!" He sounds harsher than he wants to, but now he's mad, and nothing else seems to make Greg grasp the gravity of the situation. Idiot. 

 

There's a moment of silence before Greg moves, motions stilted and painful to watch as he goes through the process of deleting all the versions of the video. Peter's stomach dips with at least the first tendrils of relief when he sees Greg disable the damning program, and finally, _finally_ , he feels like he can _breathe_ for a second. 

 

"Okay," he says, exhaling. "I want you to pick up your phone and text this number. Tell him..." He hesitates. Deadpool wouldn't come if he thought it was a trap, so... "Surprise me with tacos soon? And make sure you save some enchiladas for me some time." _I'm in trouble, Deadpool. Be careful- this is a hostage situation_. Deadpool has to be nearby, because Dmitri, strong though he is, can't have taken Peter very far. The effects of chloroform do _affect_ Peter, but not to the extent it does a normal human. It wears off much, much faster and since he was already properly situated and tied up when he woke up, Dmitri can't have gone very far. Peter wouldn't have been surprised if Deadpool wasn't already tracking Greg- considering Peter mentioned that the coworker was blackmailing him -so, realistically, he must be close.

 

Greg gives him a bewildered, annoyed look. "Why the fuck are you ordering Mex-" 

 

"Just do it!" Peter snaps, and Greg just huffs out a breath and presses _send_. A second later, like literally a _second_ (Peter figures that Wade must be in Dopinder's cab at this point, waiting for a sign) later, Greg's phone buzzes, and with a perplexed frown, he reads: 

 

**From: Unknown**

 

**gonna find you the best enchiladas in town, honey bunches of sexy oats. Just a minute away from home.**

 

" _Who the fuck_ ," Greg starts, but Peter's heart beats faster despite himself. _I'm on my way, be there in a minute._

 

"Okay," Peter says. "Good. That's good. Greg, do you know if Mikhail has any other employees working here?" He asks urgently, not wanting Wade to stumble in on thirteen assholes at Dmitri's beck and call. He's relieved when Greg shakes his head, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Okay, good... Then Wade won't be ambushed," he murmurs, just loud enough for Greg to (regrettably) pick up on what he's saying. His coworker leaps to his feet, looking half-panicked and half-furious.

 

"Are you _kidding_ _me?_ I sent a message thinking you were gonna call the- the fucking Avengers or something a-and you just call your fucking boyfriend?" He cries. "Parker, you idiot, now we're both going to die! And I don't even have the fucking video!" 

 

"Wade Wilson," Peter says flatly, realizing that if anyone had been listening on his calls or looking at his messages, it definitely wasn't Greg. That must have been all Dmitri. 

 

"What?!" 

 

Peter sighs. " _Deadpool_." 

 

Recognition dawns on Greg's face; he goes very, very pale, before shuffling slightly and clearing his throat. "I- I understand," he says, going pleasantly quiet for the first time. Peter kinda likes it, though he is mildly offended that Greg isn't just as nervous about Spider-Man dealing justice than Deadpool dealing justice. "Parker, I... I mean, will he... You know... Come after me, too?" 

 

"You'd deserve it, wouldn't you," Peter spits, but reigns himself in as he wiggles the cuffs to try to get free. Greg's expression of terror doesn't make him feel better, and ... Despite how _damn_ mad he is at the idiot, he doesn't actually want to see Wade decapitate him. He's not even sure that _Wade_ will want to decapitate Greg, who is so unassumingly displeasing that most people don't even want to stand in his vicinity. It's a bit beyond Deadpool. Although Greg _did_ endanger Peter... "But I'll tell him not to," he sighs, and Greg slumps in relief.

 

"I- I didn't think..." Greg starts shakily, and Peter pins him with a glare.

 

"I know you didn't," he says sharply, but huffs. "You can redeem yourself, Greg. Deleting that video and .... Calling Deadpool, you're on your way. To, you know, doing the right thing." He shuffles slightly on his tiptoes. "So for now, forget about yourself, and help us keep Dmitri from selling that serum."

 

"Yeah, okay, I wi-" Greg starts babbling, but he's thankfully cut off when the door slams open and hits the wall. Deadpool, with all the _subtlety_ of Tony Stark in McDonald's, struts in. There's no way Dmitri didn't hear that, from wherever he is. _Great._ He's whistling _Angel of the Morning,_ and he lights up when he sees Peter, and despite his noisy entrance, Peter is beyond thankful to see him.

 

"Hey baby!" he drawls cheerfully, making his way over and bodily _hoisting_ Greg out of his chair so he dangles above the ground. "I didn't know you were having a BDSM party without me! I'm pretty hurt, you know." His cheerful voice plunges into something ice-cold as he angles his head to meet Greg's eyes with the whites of his mask. "Go on, beg for your life. I like a little daytime entertainment with my handcuffed webslingers." Greg is shaking so badly Peter can _hear_ it... And he hates himself for it, but he kind of enjoys it, for _just_ a second. Greg kinda deserves it.

 

"Deadpool, don't," he sighs, and Wade, after a full, silent second of just _staring_ into Greg's soul, drops him in a lump on the ground. "He called you, didn't he? And can you please free me? Dmitri is gonna be back soon, and I-" his words dissolve into a moan as Deadpool swoops in and presses against him, the kiss kind of melting his brain... and they don't have _time_ for this, but he also _needs_ it. He registers the sound of metal clinking, and a second later, he's landing on his feet. 

 

"I had no idea where you went, when I woke up." Deadpool's voice gives very little away, but Peter can somehow tell he was worried as _hell._ "I just... Got into the cab, tried to track this idiot's phone..." He jerks a thumb at Greg. "But I wasn't sure, and I was worried that you were running out of time... Thank _fuck_ I was nearby." 

 

Peter opens his mouth to say something. _Thank you, I love you, can you please take me home, roll me into a blanket burrito, and feed me paneer tacos?_

He doesn't get any of those out, thanks to a shock from his Spidey-sense crackling against his spine.

 

He hears two pops; after the second, Deadpool slumps in his arms, his body an abrupt dead weight that pulls Peter down slightly and causes him to stagger. His brain can't catch up with what's happening fast enough; he looks up to see Dmitri in the broken doorway, gun in hand. Greg is face-down, probably dead. Deadpool, too.

 

Peter looks down and sees a bullet hole in the red of Wade's mask, and he knows, he _knows_ that Deadpool will wake up, he knows he'll get back up and carry on like nothing happened, but that _doesn't make it okay._ Peter gently lays Deadpool down, not breaking eye contact with Dmitri, who's just. Smiling. Like he didn't just kill Peter's best friend... _again._

He may not be in suit, but he's still _fast,_ and he darts forward to grab his webshooters off the table where he'd seen them earlier. He locks them on, his breaths coming out sharp and agitated as he stares Dmitri down.

  
"What?" Dmitri shrugs, lowering the gun and approaching Peter with an empty syringe. Peter's heart is all but throwing itself against the walls of his chest. "Bastard'll just come back to life, anyway." 

 

Oh, that is _it._

Before? He was _mad._ But now?

 

Now, he's _furious._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I KNOW this is another cliffhanger, but in my defense, it's just such a good place to end it! There's a fight coming up, long overdue, I know. Peter's not great about people killing his boo-thang.


	7. It's Just a Joke, Dude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was fun.
> 
> One more chapter to go, I think. that's right. it's the sex one ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

So, Deadpool dies. 

 

Like. A _lot_. 

 

Peter's never liked it. Back when he hadn't known about Deadpool and the merc's frankly astonishing healing factor, he'd nearly had an aneurysm when Wade had died in his very arms. His tears hadn't even dried when Wade was shifting against his chest, making some stupid, snarky comment. 

 

Peter had dropped him onto the wet asphalt and huffed off before Wade could comment on how Spider-Man had literally _bawled_ while holding Wade's body like he was the heroine of some dramatic 90s rom-com. Like a douchebag, Wade had proceeded to tease him about it every day for about a week until Peter had webbed his mouth shut and threatened to dangle him off the tallest building he could find. 

 

It comes down to this: Peter _does not_ like when Wade dies. He doesn't like watching it, he doesn't like holding Wade's body as he feels the life leave him, he doesn't like knowing that the person he loves is, even if for a short amount of time, _gone_. 

 

It's like a whole thing. Peter's loved and lost too much to watch Wade die. Especially in his arms. 

 

So yeah. He's mad. And Dmitri is still talking, apparently oblivious to the rage bubbling just under Peter's skin. He feels sticky-hot, like every single cell is ready to throw _down_ for Wade. 

 

"Look, Peter, I already kicked your ass once, so I'm not _really_ interested in another half-assed fight." Dmitri waves his wrist in a dismissive, arrogant motion, like he hadn't used Peter's senses against him the last they'd 'fought.' Laughable. It wasn't even a fight, it was a one-sided beat-down and Peter's not about to let him have the satisfaction of a second round. "You should be glad; you're boyfriend's going to regenerate, anyway. I aim to get the blood before then and be gone by then, so... Don't make this embarrassing-" 

 

Silent fury sweeps throughout Peter, his blood white-hot as he lifts an arm and webs Dmitri's mouth shut. In the next second he's moving, light and acrobatic, his leg swinging around to hit the side of Dmitri's head, _hard_. 

 

Dmitri staggers, pocketing the syringe as he tries to pull the webbing away from his mouth, and he's blinking like he can't believe Peter just _kicked_ him. He recovers quickly, which Peter expects, and launches a barrage of fists at Peter, many of which Peter dodge until Dmitri manages to punch him in the jaw. The pain registers slightly too late, and by the time Peter's moving again, Dmitri is already behind him. 

 

He wraps his arms around Peter's body- probably to subdue him, or something. From there, Peter, by now jacked up on fury and adrenaline, flips Dmitri over him and slams him by the collar against the dank asphalt before leaning in. He hears a satisfying _crack_ that must be the syringe breaking.

 

"Just because he can _regenerate_ , it doesn't give you a right to _kill_ him!" He spits at Dmitri, shaking him to get the point across. The surge of adrenaline trickles back slightly, just long enough for Peter to remember his newly re-broken rib, and the fact becomes even more salient when Dmitri punches him there to get Peter off. 

 

He pulls back, hissing in pain, and Dmitri follows up with a hook that would've clocked Peter right in the jaw again had his Spidey-sense not dropped in to say hello on time. Peter narrowly pulls away, catching the fists flying past him and forcing them down with bruising strength.

 

"You monologued all you wanted earlier, so now you're going to _listen_ ," Peter snarls, squeezing hard enough to feel Dmitri's bones starting to grind. His anger pulls back slightly at the feeling, and he leans over to look right into the other's eyes. "What I did was _wrong_. I didn't know that you were there... Or I would have _saved_ you. That's what I do." Peter ignores the way Dmitri writhes under him, trying to kick him off. Dmitri is strong, but Peter's _stronger_ , now that he's not drugged or incapacitated. 

 

Dmitri makes a muffled sound through the webbing, his eyes wild and dark on Peter's as he abruptly and eerily stops moving.

 

"You can't just do whatever you want. You can't just go around killing, you- You're just going to end up like your father." He growls, and Dmitri really loses it at that. "You just killed G-" Peter catches his breath, regret flooding through him as he looks back at Greg's body. In his haste and anger over Deadpool, he'd momentarily forgotten... "You killed Greg. He was just _stupid_ ," Peter's voice goes reed thin as he tries not to let it show how much it _hurts_. "He didn't deserve to die. He... He didn't _deserve_ that." 

 

Yeah. He's mad again.

 

"You have the opportunity to _change_ , Dmitri," he hisses, tasting blood on his tongue and teeth as he applies more weight to Dmitri's wrists. "You don't _have_ to be like this. You can improve. You can see M-Misha and Nikita again." Dmitri's silent. "There are so many _innocent_ kids out there who are Misha and Nikita's age. Little kids whose lives you're going to ruin by pulling crazy, bio-terrorist shit just-- just to get revenge on people who didn't _even_ hurt you." 

 

"You wouldn't know," Dmitri growls, a panicked edge hard in his tone as he struggles and bucks up to get away. "You didn't know what it was like, in that- that cellar," he swallows, and Peter can feel the other's heart rate ramp up violently. "You didn't have to _live_ there, have t-to see only _him_ every day, with his needles and the serum and-" his words come out almost a wheeze, and he gives Peter this look, this _horrible_ look that Peter's familiar with. Desperate, bitter, ready to put anything and everything on the line for nothing.

 

His grip on Dmitri loosens.

 

Dmitri doesn't hesitate; he takes advantage of Peter's sentiment and flips their positions. Peter's breath rattles out of his lungs in one _whoosh_ as something drives deep into his abdomen. Holy _shit._ He makes a strangled, wet sound as he feels Dmitri's hand cup just underneath the wound he created, looking down to see ... Oh. A huge-ass piece of glass, probably from the syringe, poking out from his stomach. 

 

Dmitri _twists_ it like an asshole, and Peter keens. What the _hell._

 

"As much as I like to be lectured by idiot heroes with their heads in the clouds, I tire of all this useless _chatter,"_ Dmitri snarls, lifting his blood-slick hand. "You broke my syringe when you slammed me into the ground, so it looks like I'm just gonna have to get _creative_ about getting my _hands-"_ he shoves his palm up against the wound. "-On your _blood."_

"Think that's my cue, huh, Webs?" 

 

Peter's mouth curls into a stupid grin at the cheerful words, and Dmitri, to his credit, just looks mildly inconvenienced as he sits back on his haunches to stare at Deadpool. Peter arches back slightly, watching an upside-down Deadpool brush himself off and take his _sweet, sweet_ time to stretch before neatly unsheathing his katanas. 

 

"Took you long enough," Peter mumbles, coughing a bit and cringing when he feels flecks of blood against his lips. "Oh, damn it." 

 

"Yeah, I _know,_ baby boy! It's just that Death took her _time,_ hoo boy." He shakes his head, and then abruptly, with no preamble or warning, he's moving in a red and black blur of motion. Peter blinks; he's disoriented, a bit, thanks to the glass sticking out of his stomach (he _really_ hopes his organs haven't been _skewered,_ but he's pretty sure he'd feel that? Oh, _please_ let his organs be safe. He really likes them undamaged and where they are), but even in his semi-conscious state, he can see the whirlwind of power and fury that is Deadpool.

 

With Deadpool, it's weird, because he's almost _stupidly_ skilled as a merc, but everyone underestimates him as just some whacko in a costume. His reputation precedes him as a killer, but seeing as all of Deadpool's hits usually end up... Well, _dead,_ the fact that he's masterful with pretty much any weapon he gets his hands on rarely makes it into the news circulation. He's just a flash of steel and movement to Peter right now, Bea and Arthur like extensions of his arms with the ease that he wields them. Dmitri's fast, too, but not quite as, and compared to Deadpool, he's still getting used to his powers.

 

He does manage to dodge the katanas by twisting his body around the blades _and_  shove Deadpool a few feet away, but Deadpool's recovery time to get back to his feet and lunge for Dmitri is almost nonexistent. It catches Dmitri off-guard, which Deadpool takes advantage of as he all but throws Dmitri into the wall and shoves his Desert Eagle into the asshole's throat. 

 

"It's a shame you're not on your feet, Webs," Deadpool drawls, pressing his barrel tight up against Dmitri's chin. Dmitri growls, but he seems to know that if he tries anything stupid, Deadpool's reflexes will outdo his own _much_ faster and leave him dead. "'Cause you see, I know you're gonna do your whole _hero_ spiel with me... And trust me, I love that spiel!" he promises, turning to look at Peter with wide, sincere eyes... As much as they can be through his mask, anyway. "Really, a 10/10 spiel, promise! But the thing is," he cuts his eyes back at Dmitri, his voice so low and cold that Peter has to strain to hear it. "He beat the shit out of you, blackmailed you, made you bleed _again,_ tried to keep you from _me,_ AND." He leans in, and Peter can almost see him vibrating with rage even with his fuzzy vision, "He broke your _fucking_ heater! I mean I know that seems kinda _low_ on the list, but you almost fucking froze to death!"

 

"Deadpool," Peter coughs. " _Wade._ Please. There's.... There's still hope for him." He can barely believe it himself, but he does _believe,_ that under Bruce Banner's guidance and being near Misha and Nikita, Dmitri can maybe... 

 

"Oh, come _o-"_

"I know," Peter wheezes, trying to sit up. He can tell Deadpool's torn between shooting Dmitri, knocking Dmitri out, and just dropping him to the ground to come and see if Peter's okay. A deep snarl, like the rumble of a car, leaves Deadpool's throat when he sees the glass, and Peter is suddenly very aware of blood soaking, like, everything. And this was his favorite Star Wars shirt, oh man. "Deadpool, please-"

 

_Pop._ Peter's eyes widen as Deadpool's gun goes off; Dmitri screams, crumpling in a heap, and Peter swallows back a sigh of both relief and mild annoyance when he sees that Deadpool's kneecapped him. 

 

"'Pool," Peter slurs, and Deadpool, without taking his gun off of Dmitri, crosses the few feet of distance between them. Peter notices the way the mask dips as Deadpool presses his lips tight together at the sight of the injury; he's aware that he's kinda a wreck right now, gross and messy, but Deadpool doesn't seem to care as he presses a reassuring kiss right over Peter's hairline.

 

"C'mon, munchkin, it ain't that bad! Stabbed with this lil thing?" Deadpool hums cheerily, but there's an edge to his voice as he examines the wound. "Just a flesh wound, babe," Deadpool lies, and Peter just rolls his eyes, not in too much pain to quit being sarcastic. 

  
"Avengers Tower," he tells Deadpool, and Deadpool's shoulders draw together tighter. "C'mon, Pool. Dr. Banner'll kn..." Peter's words just leave him, gone, and he can't seem to snatch them back. He's so _tired._ And worse, he's realizing with this poor ventilation, he's cold _. Again._ He really needs to ask Tony for some new tech or something. Oh, and there was also the stab wound and broken rib.

 

"Hey, hey," Deadpool stands, lifting Peter up with one arm and giving Dmitri a look of deep loathing. He mercilessly grabs the villain's arm, jerking him to stand on his good leg before inelegantly tossing him over his shoulder. Dmitri makes a wounded sound. "It's okay, sweetie, I'm gonna get you there safe," he assures Peter, who's now waning in and out. "Just not gonna take that glass out _yet_ or it'll be a _bloodbath!_ I mean, I don't _really_ know, but I think that that's what you're supposed to do... Maybe? Either way, Green Bean will probably know what to do better... Wait, is he really even a doctor? Those 169 PhDs gotta be useful for _something,_ huh, baby boy?" Peter obviously is in no condition to answer, so Wade chatters on. "I mean, what's even the point after the first, like two? After that, they should just be like _here, you've struggled enough, have five more-"_

Peter finally summons the wherewithal to say something. "Greg."

 

Deadpool pauses, his gloved hand squeezing Peter's thigh gently. "I'll come back and get him, sweetheart." he promises.

 

Peter nods, because he knows Deadpool will do it. Because Deadpool cares about what he wants. 

 

And at some point over the next few seconds, the world just kind of fades out. 

 

\--

 

When he wakes up, he knows exactly where he is: the medical bay of Stark Tower. The panic of waking up somewhere unfamiliar is minimal and fades quickly, and Peter struggles slightly to sit up. He can feel the stiffness of bandages wrapped around what feels like his _entire_ torso.

 

"Hello, Peter." At the familiar voice, Peter's lips curl into a pale smile, and he lifts his hand slightly to pathetically wave at Bruce, who's standing beside his bed with a clipboard. Tired-doctor-with-clipboard is kind of Bruce's aesthetic, honestly.  

 

"Hi, Dr. Banner," he rasps, wincing at the sound of his own voice. "Deadpool-"

 

The perpetually-exhausted looking man sits down beside Peter's bed, pinching the bridge of his nose slightly. "Bruce, Peter. And he's very much okay," he says warily, and Peter grins helplessly. No doubt Deadpool's wreaking havoc in Tony's state-of-the-art refrigerator right about now, scoffing at the plethora of frozen burritos. "He's been checking in at least every fifteen minutes, so I'm sure he'll be back soon. Dmitri is... In a holding cell," he says, his tone shifting slightly into something a bit guarded. "He hasn't said anything, and Deadpool said he was... I quote, "freaking the fuck out in the back of a cab" so he didn't hear Dmitri's monologue and only knows his name from you. You're the only one who knows anything about him." 

 

Peter falls back slightly against the sinfully soft pillow, giving Bruce woeful eyes. "He's Misha and Nikita's older brother, Dr.- Bruce." 

 

Bruce's eyebrows arch all the way up to his hairline, his eyes widening almost comically as he stammers for words. " _What?_ I had no idea they even _had..._ They've never mentioned him."

 

"They only met him a couple times, when they were too young to remember." Peter winces, a bit sore as he tries to sit up, and Bruce's hand lifts reflexively like he's going to push Peter back down. "It's really horrible, how much of Mikhail's weird concoction of doom is in Dmitri, honestly. But he's... He's so _bitter,"_ Peter closes his eyes, swallowing back the wave of despair that he couldn't convince Dmitri to take the high road. "He's mad... At his father, at _me,_ for taking Misha and Nikita away, I..." He turns his eyes on Bruce, missing the other's sharp little gasp. "I feel  _so_ bad."

 

"It's not your fault, Peter," Bruce mumbles automatically, gripping his clipboard before his knuckles loosen just slightly. "Some people... That kind of thing twists up in them, deep and dark and all-consuming, until all you can think about is..." He looks away, something in his eyes that's far beyond Peter's years, beyond even Bruce's years. Something almost ancient. "...It's going to take a long time for him to be able to come to terms with that level of abuse."

 

Peter's shoulders drop slightly. "Oh!" he sits back up, all too abruptly, and sucks in a sharp breath. "I- I had... Glass sticking out of me?" he asks helplessly, and Bruce just lets out a slightly exasperated huff.

 

"Oh, that's not _all."_ Tony pops out from behind the doorway, and Peter almost has a _heart attack._ "Two broken ribs, abdominal bleeding, facial bruising, and various lacerations of bruises from only a day or so ago." Tony lists off, looking surprisingly casual in a sweater and jeans. Peter just stares at him, stunned into silence, as the billionaire stares at him. "You know, kid, I know it took me _way_ too long to figure out who the nerd under that red and blue spandex was, but that doesn't mean you have to get revenge on me every single time you patrol. _Also,"_ Tony speaks, over Peter's protests that he is, in fact, _not_ a kid, " _Deadpool?"_

Peter, thankfully, regains his voice. "Deadpool pretty much _saved_ me, Mr. Stark," he protests. "Wade's been there for me the past few days when I was ... I-"

 

"Go on," Tony drawls, his voice _dripping_ with weirdly parental disapproval.

 

"When I was being blackmailed," Peter's shoulders slump, and he doesn't miss the look Tony and Bruce share. _Ugh._  "Dmitri knows my identity."

 

"He _what?"_ Tony's voice raises, and Bruce leans in and threads his fingers together against the soft cotton sheets of Peter's bed.

 

"Peter," he says gently. "Why don't you tell us what happened? From the beginning?"

 

And so, reluctantly, Peter outlines everything- Greg taking the video, Dmitri teaming up with him, him saving Misha and Nikita, Mikhail sending Deadpool after him, him getting beaten up and consequently _kidnapped,_ and finally, Deadpool saving him and bringing him back to the Avengers Tower. There's a brief moment of silence when he's done, and Tony closes his eyes. 

 

"Jesus, kid, you're going to be the goddamn death of me. I need a drink," the billionaire mutters, turning on his heel and striding out. Bruce casts Peter a sympathetic look, his eyes widening when he sees the look in Peter's eyes.

 

"Are you in pain? What hurts?" he asks, moving like he's about to check Peter's vitals... But Peter stops him with a shake of his head.

 

"No... _Well,_ not like that," he clears his throat, and he's not surprised to find that it's wet. "It's just been a really hard week, Bruce," he admits, wrapping his arms around himself, and Bruce's expression softens immediately. "I mean... Past all the blackmailing, and the bugging, and the beating up... and the- I was so worried about Aunt May, we haven't spoken in a while, and she- I mean I'm going to call her today, but..." He swallows. "She's okay when I don't call for a couple days, you know? Because she knows I'm really busy, but... I've just been... Overwhelmed." He lifts his wrist to wipe at his _suspiciously_ wet eyes. "I told G-Greg I would keep him _safe,"_ he says, his voice finally cracking as he curls his fist against his heart. Something _hurts,_ but he's pretty sure it's nothing physical. "I said I would get him out of there, but Dmitri shot him, I- I couldn't ... I _didn't_ save him, because I wasn't paying attention."

  
"Peter-" Bruce begins, but he is very promptly interrupted.

 

"Now that is just a _load_ of crap," Deadpool's voice comes from the doorway, and finally, a tension Peter didn't know he'd been hanging onto seeps out of him. Wade's mask is rolled up to his nose, and he grins widely when he sees Peter up and coherent,  _very_ definitively ignoring Tony's outraged "Hey!" as he struts up to Peter. "Hey there, sweet stuff," he coos, and Peter instinctively and very unabashedly turns his face against one muscular thigh and leans into Wade. "Aw, look, he's all snuggly." 

 

Peter cracks one eye open to see Bruce and Tony, who's reappeared with a drink in hand, looking _astonished._

"Wa- Wait," Bruce starts, his voice uncharacteristically weak, "You... Not with ... I mean... ?"He kinda croaks, and Peter's not sure if he has enough self control not to start making some pretty awkward noises at the feeling of Wade's fingers in his hair. 

 

"With _him?"_ Tony blurts out, looking like he's either going to pass out. He's eyeing another one of the beds in the med bay like he's not entirely sure if he's going to make it there before he faints. "Why _Deadpool?_ I mean... You guys are like, opposites! You're--" He waves a hand at Peter. "Well, you. And _you're..."_ He turns to Wade, the shock giving way to that weirdly parental disapproval from earlier.

  
"Spidey-babe's teaching me how to be a good boy. Woof," Wade winks, his fingers moving down to press against the nape of Peter's neck. "And I gotta be real with you guys, the sexual tension between us is _crazy_ right now. I mean, we were gonna have some _great_ identity sex, but the-"

 

"Oh, wow," Peter blinks. "I don't think I've ever seen those two run that quickly," he looks up at Deadpool, who nudges Peter lightly with his hip before gracelessly clambering into the not-big-enough-for-two bed. They're so close, he just needs to move his head _slightly_ to the right to press his lips against Wade's. This one's softer, and Wade follows it up with tiny kisses underneath Peter's ear. 

 

"Holy shit, you've been _unacceptable_ this past week," Wade scolds, and Peter sniffs a little before laying his head across Wade's lap. "Not only are you keeping all _sorts_ of secrets in that pretty head, you've also gone on a self-blaming binge because- What? You think Greg's death is your fault? You couldn't have known that slimy asshole was gonna come in with a gun and turn the room into a scene from-"

 

"It's not just _that,"_ Peter whimpers, shivering a little at the fingers combing through his hair. "I - I have to _be better._ I promised Greg I'd get him out of there, I told him- if he helped me- Dmitri wouldn't kill him, I would make _sure_ he didn't kill him. Even _though_ he helped me, Dmitri killed him anyway... I should have just let him keep that stupid video, then _maybe,_ " Peter squeezes his eyes shut, curling up tighter against Wade's thighs.

 

Wade's silent for a moment, and then: "I _know,_ Yellow, self-loathing does _not_ look good on that pretty face!" He shakes his head, thumb still stroking large, sweeping circles against the top of Peter's spine. "Stop it, Webs. What's done is done, and _you_ didn't pull the trigger, so you have no place freaking out like this. Greg..." Wade hesitates, moving Peter so he's sitting up against Wade's chest. It's warm.... And Peter's not entirely sure he's not going to break down. "He helped you, in the end. He ... He did good. And the point is, you did that... Made him change his mind, made him realize whose side was worth fighting on." 

 

Peter's lower lip trembles, but he nods. He knows it's going to be hard to wipe the sight of Greg's body from where it's burned behind his eyelids... and Wade's, too.

 

"... That's not it, is it?" Wade asks abruptly, and Peter stiffens as he turns his head slightly. "What is it? I smell kinda weird, don't I? Damn it, I knew I should've changed. None of Tin Man's fucking _casshmmeeere_ sweaters fits me, 'cause, y'know, but I also think he'd stab me through the brain if he caught me wearing one of his precious fucking swe-"

 

"It's not funny," Peter says loudly, turning around in Wade's lap to face him. He's not sure what his facial expression is, but judging by the way Wade sucks in a sharp breath and stares at him, he figures it's probably a little bit nuclear. "You dying- _it's not funny._ I-" He sniffles, and Wade's eyes widen in alarm. "I don't _like it._ When you die. Every time, it feels like-" He sucks in a breath, trying to pull as much air into his lungs as he possibly can. "I'm so scared you're not going to come back. It's not a _punchline,_ Wade. You getting killed, just because 'it's fine, Deadpool can come back to life,'" Peter scoffs, and Wade's just staring at him in quiet shock, so he keeps going. "I hate it, I never _know._ You, just quiet in my arms like that, I just can't help but think, _what if once, his healing factor doesn't kick in, and he just doesn't wake up?_ You have to be more _careful,"_ he smacks his hand against Wade's chest, too light to injure but just hard enough to _mean something._ It feels like there's a black hole in his chest. "Because it _matters_ to me. To _me._ I don't care how many times you've come back to life." He stutters to a stop, fresh tears welling up in his eyes, and great, now he's embarrassed. "I-" 

 

His eyes widen as firm hands wrap around his waist, hoisting him slightly so his face is tucked in the crook of Wade's shoulder. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around the merc's neck tightly, and Wade haltingly nods against his head. 

 

"I'll be more careful, Webs, I promise," Wade whispers, fingers warm against Peter's bandages as he pulls him in tighter. "I didn't know..." He sounds... Odd. Peter can't see his face, but he somehow feels as if... Maybe Wade's gotten a bit emotional...? "I didn't realize how much it mattered to you." Peter hears the unspoken, _I didn't realize how much **I** mattered to you. _

"Well you _do_ matter, stupid," he whispers, voice kind of soggy as he clings tighter to Wade. "And I don't know what I'd do without you, even if you're d-" His voice cracks. "Even if you're only dead for a few minutes." 

 

"I understand, Peter," Wade says, and Peter knows it's serious with that quiet tone, with Wade saying _Peter_ instead of one of dozens of nicknames. "I'll be more careful." 

 

"Good," Peter whispers, and Wade doesn't let go of him. 

 


	8. To Quote Hamlet

"See you, Mr. Stark!" Peter tugs his gloves off, lobbing them into the trash can, and hangs the slightly rumpled lab coat up on the hook. He tries to sneakily scurry past Tony, who's examining a vial of suspiciously radioactive-green liquid, but the other promptly drops the vial (right onto the counter, like a heathen) and swivels his chair around to stare Peter down. 

 

"Where are you headed, Parker?" Tony asks, deceptively casually, and Peter's eyelid twitches slightly in a dead tell. It's super annoying. Literally everyone seems to know that Peter's lying, and so easily too. Really makes him wonder how in the hell he'd kept his identity secret for this long. 

 

"Er.... Nowhere?" He no longer has to worry about taking pictures for Jameson, which Tony knows (seeing as he's the one who hired Peter), so Peter really has no excuse for leaving other than one glaring, red and black one...

 

"Wanna try that again?" Tony's lips twitch upward as he backs Peter into a metaphorical corner, the bare hint of his smile malicious. Peter knows he's trapped, so he rubs the back of his head sheepishly, the gesture painfully drawn out as he looks for any form of escape. Finding none, he exhales and mumbles something along the lines of, 

 

"'MhngnwiDP." 

 

"Run that by me just once more," Tony drawls with that same hellish smile, and Steve, without looking, chucks a wad of rolled up aluminum foil at the other's head. Tony doesn't react fast enough, and the foil hits its mark with a small  _thud._  "Hey! What was that for?" 

 

"Leave him alone," Steve admonishes, looking up from his book and casting a withering look in Tony's direction. "We may not approve, but nothing is going to keep Peter from spending time with... Wade." He says Wade the same way one would say used Kleenex, with an accompanying grimace, but with no other disparaging remarks. Peter's grateful for as much. "Peter, just... As always, be careful." 

 

"There's no need to be," Peter promises with a reassuring smile, maneuvering his way around a disgruntled Tony and plucking his jacket off of the coat hooks in the corner of the room. "Wade's really sweet to me, and stupidly protective."  

 

"I can't even imagine him displaying that sort of behavior, but I'll take your word for it." Steve says with a chuckle, rolling his eyes at Tony's sulking. As if on cue, FRIDAY's voice reverberates throughout the lab, interrupting their conversation. 

 

"Boss, Deadpool is here, asking for Peter." To her credit, she sounds faintly amused.

 

Peter can't help but laugh at Tony's sour expression. "Bye, guys. My boyfriend's waiting." He cheerfully sweeps past them, vaults down the stairs, and bursts through the door, right into Wade's waiting arms. 

 

"Pumpkin," Wade greets cheerfully, sweeping Peter around in an arc like he's a cheesy movie heroine before setting him down. He's in one of his classy, conspicuous, black sweatshirts, hood pulled up past his head, and Peter emphatically snuggles into the soft fabric. It's still nippy outside, biting at his nose and cheeks, and Wade is built like a powerhouse and radiates heat.

 

"Hi, babe." Peter greets with a flushed smile, curling his fingers in between Wade's and arching up onto his tiptoes to press a kiss against Wade's cheek. "Ready to see May tonight?" 

 

"No," Wade admits with a snort. "Baby boy, you could have told me three years ago that we were going to be meeting that sweet old aunt of yours and I still wouldn't be ready." 

 

"First of all, my aunt isn't that old. Second of all, please don't call her old in front of her, she will literally decapitate you. And three." Peter pauses, pinching Wade's pitted cheek lightly, "She's going to love you just as much as I do." 

 

Wade makes a face, playfully swatting at Peter's fingers before pretending to bite them. "I'm still kind of shocked about that, by the way. Am I in the Twilight Zone? I mean- we are actually together, right? Or am I gonna wake up tomorrow and-" 

 

Peter interrupts him by with a light, barely-there kiss. "You aren't in the Matrix, Neo." 

 

Wade gazes at him with that melty-syrup look in his eyes that always liquefies Peter's insides. It's unbelievably gooey for a man who once threatened to skewer him with a foot of tempered steel. "God, I fucking love you." 

 

"I know." Peter grins, lowering himself back onto the pads of his feet before knocking his shoulder slightly against Wade's. "Now come on, we have to perform a miracle and find a sweater that goes well with your suit." 

 

\--

 

Astonishingly, Wade shows up in a sweater and jeans, the bottom of the navy blue fabric peeking out under the hoodie unceremoniously yanked over it. Its pulled up past his head, and he smells like fresh, cold leaves when he folds Peter into a hug. 

 

"Hey." He sounds nervous, so Peter squeezes his hands and guides him into the kitchen, where May is frantically trying not to let her pan-fried sweet potatoes burn while also trying to puree what looks like soup on the stove. 

 

"Oh gosh, hi," May turns slightly, not faltering at all when she sees Wade and casting him a bright smile. Her silver-streaked hair is piled atop her head, looking like a small, defeated octopus, and the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. "I'm so sorry, I am literally splattered with soup right now and I think I have flour in my hair, and I'm just like- not a good cook  _at all_ so I'm sorry if you were expecting something really amazi-"

 

"It's not a problem." Wade sounds slightly strained, like he's about to run away, but then his shoulders relax slightly. He walks over to the potatoes, picks up the spatula, and begins to stir the sweet potatoes around. Peter smiles, noticing fondly that Wade looks like he's relieved to be keeping occupied. Also, his boyfriend is a crazy good cook for someone who literally only eats Mexican food for breakfast, brunch, lunch, snacks, and dinner. 

 

"You don't have to..." May starts, looking away from the immersion blender for just a moment. It somehow escapes her grasp in the span of a few seconds, slipping out from under her hand, and Peter arms himself with a roll of paper towels as soup splatters all over the cabinets, stove, counter-tops, and the three of them. "Oh, shit. I mean-" 

 

Wade snorts, his smile a little shy but heartfelt as he turns toward May. "It's no big deal. I've sauteed potatoes a million times, I promise I won't let them burn." 

 

"Which is more than you can say when May's cooking, honestly." Peter pipes up, only to get elbowed by his aunt. He leans in to press a kiss to her temple, closing his eyes for just a second as May squeezes him. He doesn't get to see her nearly enough, and the moments he gets to be with her are pretty much the highlights of his week, other than hanging out and playing video games with Wade.

 

"Watch it. I can still kick you out." she threatens with no heat in her tone, spattering Peter slightly with a few drops of soup. "It's so nice to finally meet you, Wade, dear. Peter's told me about you... when he actually talks to me," she huffs. "He doesn't call me nearly enough."

 

"That's such a shame," Wade drawls exaggeratedly. "Petey, you should call your aunt more."

 

"Unbelievable," Peter shakes his head mock-incredulously, wiping down the counter and moving the finished dishes out to the dining room. "See if I ever invite Wade over again."

 

"Don't worry, we can hang out without him." Wade stage-whispers to May, who giggles. Peter shakes his head, yanking the dish towel off the stove handle and whipping it at his treacherous boyfriend's butt. "Hey! Watch the goods!" Wade complains, gingerly rubbing his backside and casting Peter a wounded look. 

 

Peter rolls his eyes, spooning the perfectly browned sweet potatoes into a dish and sprinkling them with garlic salt before setting it down on coasters in the dining room. It's much the same room from his childhood, with only a few things changing positions- certain pictures, vases of flowers, the arrangements inside the china display shelf. As May pours the soup into a large glass bowl, Wade shuffles out into the dining room and wraps his arms around Peter's midsection.

 

"Hey."

 

"Hi," Peter smiles, patting Wade's hand. "What's with you, huh? Not that polite Wade isn't kinda turning me on, but I've never seen you behave like this before. Hell, you weren't even this polite when we went on our first date." 

 

"I'm pretty sure I tried to kill you on our first date." 

 

"You know as well as I do that that was not a first date." 

 

"Potato, po-tay-to." 

 

"You just pronounced those both the same way." 

 

"I don't know," Wade shrugs, tilting his head so his cheek rests against Peter's palm. "I'm nervous. I can tell how important she is to you, so that means she's important to me too, because I care about you. Also, she's like this pinnacle of the perfect caretaker and it's like, really intimidating. I just didn't expect it. You really are the product of your environment. By the way, about it turning you on-" 

 

"Okay, we can finally eat!" May declares, cutting the moment short and bustling around to place silverware at each chair. She undoes her apron, balling it up and throwing it gracelessly toward the kitchen before planting her hands on her hips. Her hair is strenuously attempting to break free of the clip trying hard to hold it all in place, and with that flour still streaking her face, she looks sort of manic. "And goddammit, it's going to be delicious." It's less of an exclamation and more of a threat, really. 

 

Wade takes a seat hesitantly, spooning some potatoes into his plate along with a spatula-full of baked macaroni and cheese, and Peter follows suit. They both try a little of each, and then give May matching, grave expressions. 

 

Before she has a chance to look all too crestfallen, they both burst into laughter at pretty much the exactly same time; now that they're a couple, they've adopted that psychic couple sixth sense to do things at eerily the same moment as each other. 

 

"I'm already regretting this relationship." May scowls, popping a forkful of macaroni and cheese into her mouth. "But really, how is it?" 

 

Before Peter can open his mouth, Wade leans in and says, "It's so fucking good." Peter's about to pinch him lightly for cursing at the table, but decides against it at the heartfelt sincerity in Wade's words and expression. He's not sure when his boyfriend last even had a home-cooked meal, and it seems to surprise May as well. "I haven't had food this good in, like, ages. I would eat a whole pan of this macaroni." He looks dead serious. "I've been to some good food trucks around the city, and this still tops that." 

 

"Well," May says after a second of silence, her cheeks a little red, and Peter threads his fingers between Wade's against his thigh. "You're always welcome to come over, dear. I can't promise that everything I make is even vaguely going to be as good as all of this turned out, but I can always try. Or we can just order Chinese takeout," she coughs.

 

"I would," Wade hesitates, sounding just a little raspy, "I would really like that." He clears his throat, glancing at Peter for just a second before eagerly returning to putting away sweet potatoes at an astonishing rate. 

 

They eat in relative, comfortable silence, broken only once in a while by May asking a few questions. Once Wade's expressed slight discomfort at any mentions of the job or past relationships, May steers the conversation toward some of his favorite local eateries (Mamacitas, baby, you have not LIVED until you've tried those enchiladas), what he enjoys doing in his free time (lazing with this sweet scoop of chocolate chip, honey-dip boo, of course) and, of course, what he sees in Peter (everything). May seems incredibly satisfied after her round of subtle grilling, and once they've boxed all the leftovers into Tupperware and loaded the dishwasher, she tells them she's going to have an early night.

 

"I've been cooking since, like, two," she admits, kissing Peter's forehead and giving Wade's hand a gentle squeeze as she slides a few of the boxes into it. "I'm barely upright. But don't be strangers, boys. I want to see you here at least once a week, do I make myself clear?"

 

"Yes, ma'am," they both chirp, and Peter's insides all but liquefy when he sees Wade giving May that exact same melty-syrup look he'd been giving Peter just that morning. God, when did he become such a hopeless romantic?

 

He barely just makes it through the door of his own apartment before he's smacking the door shut with one hand and sliding the other up along the back of Wade's neck. He only just restrains himself from climbing his boyfriend, instead opting to press kiss after breathless kiss against Wade's mouth eagerly. The two of them are panting when he pulls around, tiny puffs of warm air between the them in his chilly-as-always apartment.

 

"I don't, like, want to kill the mood," he murmurs, and he must have that hungry look in his eyes that Wade thinks is "just about the hottest fucking thing ever, baby boy, you look at me like you're ready to eat me up," because Wade just makes a protesting sound low in his throat at the thought of the mood being killed. "But thank you for putting my aunt at ease. She worries a lot about me."

  
"And for good _reason!"_ Wade rolls his eyes dramatically. "You are a danger magnet, Spidey. Except not a lame magnet, like one of those corny ones that peels and shit. No, you're like one of those fancy-schmancy collectible fridge magnets with the lacquer and the gloss and the popping colo-mmph," he trails off as he's kissed, because Peter loves this goon but he won't stop if he starts now. And Peter's kinda looking to _get it_ tonight, ya feel? 

 

He reels away from Wade for just one second, hip-checking him neatly into his tiny ass bed and yanking off his shoes before he crawls right in with him. Wade lost his own footwear somewhere along the way, along with his shirt _and_ pants, which Peter thinks is really an unfair, rather overlooked talent. He straddles Wade easily, knees on either sides of his hips as he leans in once more to kiss and nip at Wade's lower lip, eliciting husky groans from the other with a lot more ease than his fumbling first attempts.

 

"You've gotten a fuck of a lot more bolder, Webs," Wade rumbles underneath him, biting at his jaw almost playfully. "You used to be _much_ more easier to pin, and a fuck of a lot more sensitive. This really isn't fair." 

 

"Not fair? You call this not fair?" Outraged, Peter punishingly- or not so punishingly -grinds against Wade. "What's _not fair_ is that you get _significantly_ more turned on when I'm wearing my suit. You- You're so much thirstier for Spider-Man!" He's trying not to pout as he says this, but Wade reads him like an open book and has the audacity to look confused _,_ the asshole. 

 

"What are you talking about? You're the same person! What does it matter if I-" he holds himself back, seeming to catch on that whatever he's about to say isn't going to get him any. Peter glares at him dangerously, because whatever happens next is definitely going to be banking on Wade's choice of words. "That is, I love you both very much. I just had a crush on Spidey for longer, so my brain is still catching up to Peter." 

 

"..... Speech: 100," Peter says finally, drawing a nervous chuckle from Wade. He throws himself back into their heavy make-out session, letting his hands wander all over Wade's body without abandon. He has, by now, memorized the notches and grooves in Wade's skin, knows where to rest his fingers to ensure that he's not causing his boyfriend discomfort.

 

"What can I say, I'm a wordsmith." Wade grins, bright in the slice of moonlight that arcs over his upper half. "Also, are your thighs still a little sore from when you got whacked by that giant lizard tail yesterday night? Because if yes, then you should let me do the work." 

 

"Advanced healing!" Peter protests, but allows himself to be maneuvered under Wade anyway. His thighs could, in fact, use a bit of a break, but not just because he got tail-slapped. Riding Wade could be a cardio category in its own right. He also goes pretty much boneless when Wade's fingers thread through his sloppy curls, tugging against Peter's scalp just right. He hums eagerly, arching back as Wade kisses over his ribs, hips, and navel, making his way down toward Peter's dick. 

 

"Unfair," he manages to gasp out, fingers still clasped over the base of Wade's neck. "You _know_ how that gets to me." 

 

"Duh," Wade says cheerfully, wrapping his lips around the head of Peter's dick before pulling back with a wet pop, like he's previewing the world's first theater-released gay porno. Peter's so preoccupied imagining taking his beau to see a gay porno in theaters that he almost doesn't notice Wade sneak his fingers in.

 

"Are you seriously zoning out _while_ I'm sucking your dick? That is so lame," Wade reprimands, crooking his fingers just so. Peter's head falls back against the pillow, a whimper of a sound escaping between his teeth as he pulls his knees up and almost smacks them against Wade's jaw. "Unless you're imagining me in Captain America's suit. Or Captain America himself. Then by all means, zone away." 

 

"Oh my god!" Peter blurts out, almost going white at the thought. " _Stop_ talking about Steve while you're sucking my dick, that is so wrong. He's pretty much like one of my _dads."_

"He could be a dad to me, too." Wade purrs all too lasciviously, whining when Peter kicks him in the face. "Okay, fine, _fine,_ no daddy kinks here." He pulls his fingers away, leaving Peter feeling empty for just a moment too long as he takes his sweet time with the lube.

 

"Oh my god, hurry up! I've been waiting, like, all day!" he groans, aggravated as he lifts his head to watch Wade liberally apply lube. Why is he going _this slowly?_

 

"Okay, first of all, don't rush the lube." Wade tosses the bottle aside, meeting Peter's eyes with no small amount of amusement. "Second of all, you wouldn't be this horny if you'd just said yes to the quickie I offered earlier-"

 

"Gross, Wade!" Peter yelps. "That was May's bathroom! We _cannot_ have a quickie in May's bathroom! Oh my god, you are about two seconds from getting kicked out of my bed and watching me get it on with my hand inste-" His words taper off into a wet gasp as Wade finally pushes in, slick and even thanks to the literal gallon of lube he poured all over himself. The thought isn't exactly a turn-off. 

 

"I wouldn't mind watching you get it on with your hand," Wade purrs, one hand curled around Peter's hip for leverage and one hand sliding up along his arm to press his wrists down. It's all pretense; both of them know Peter could very easily throw Wade off and tug his wrists free, but there's something a little thrilling for Peter to act helpless for a few moments. There's almost... A little sense of relief, really, in not having to _do_ anything for once, to let Wade take charge. 

 

"You would, wouldn't you?" Peter leers, taunting his boyfriend and enjoying the riled-up glimmer in Wade's darkening eyes. He arches up slightly, a shiver humming like electricity up his spine at Wade's next thrust, and nips at his earlobe. "I bet you'd come in your pants like a _teenager,_ watching me get off all slow and e-easy," his breath stutters as Wade fucks him. 

 

"What would Aunt May say if she could hear you now." Wade shakes his head sadly, squeezing Peter's wrists none-too-gently as he knows he can take it. "If she knew her nephew was such a massive _brat."_ The word is punctuated by Wade bottoming out, which makes it _really_ difficult for Peter to formulate his thoughts into actual words.

 

" _What did I say about-"_ Peter's annoyed reprimand is promptly forgotten as Wade increases the intensity of his thrusts, his entire body rippling forward in one sinuous moment as Peter's poor, cheap bed all but creaks in protest. Peter winces in sympathy for his neighbors, because his bed really isn't equipped for all the toe-curling sex he and Wade have in it. He _really_ needs to upgrade his furniture. 

 

At this point, he's out of words. He just hooks his legs tight around Wade's hips, wanton moans trembling out between gasps of breath as he pushes back just slightly. He's trying to keep his bed together, for fuck's sake, but that is _so_ difficult to do when Wade's dick suddenly seems to possess the odd and very specific power to render him utterly speechless. He's so _close,_ he can feel the heat starting at his toes and streaking through his blood like a light wave. 

 

Wade presses a kiss first against Peter's temple, and then the base of his throat. "Let go, Peter." 

 

And Peter trusts Wade wholeheartedly, so he does.

 

\--

 

He comes to an uncertain amount of time later, battling away the insurmountable surge of lethargy that washes over him to gain some sense of his bearings. He's been lovingly tucked in, and his cheek is resting against what he's about 80% certain is Wade's hip. He lifts his head slightly, pleasantly surprised to find that Wade hasn't taken off to go get food at some ungodly hour, and is instead reading something that Peter can't quite make out. 

 

He's about to ask when Wade murmurs, his profile illuminated in the dark by the slight glow of Peter's very weak lamp, "Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt that the sun doth move; doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love." 

 

"I know that one," Peter whispers, resting his cheek against Wade's shoulder. "It's Hamlet."

  
Wade tosses the book toward the foot of the bed, demeanor shifting seamlessly. "Finicky little bastard, if you ask me." he says cheerfully, like he hadn't just filled Peter's heart with butterflies. "Always moping and dreary and all, _boo hoo my name is Hamlet and I'm too lame to know that Horatio has the hots for me-"_

 

"Wait, what?" Peter protests laughingly. "How do you know that Horatio likes Hamlet?" 

 

Wade gives him a disbelieving look. "Oh, baby boy," he clucks sympathetically, and his expression softens considerably. "Horatio would go to the ends of the world for Hamlet. That _sweet prince_ at the end, oh!" Wade clutches his chest dramatically, flopping back slightly and taking Peter with him. "Isn't it romantic?"

  
"I suppose that makes sense, because," Peter's voice stretches like honey, languorous, as Wade's fingers trail aimlessly up and down his arm. "I'd go to the ends of the world for you, Wade." 

 

Wade laughs, and Peter only just catches his words as he drifts back into comfortable unconsciousness, safely cocooned against Wade's side once more. 

 

"Goodnight, sweet prince." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speech: 100- a Skyrim reference. Basically, it's Peter saying that Wade is really good at using his words to get out of trouble. 
> 
> Goodnight, sweet prince- the line Horatio utters to Hamlet as he's *spoilers* dying. 
> 
> WOWWW I KNOW IT hAS BEEN AGES BUT HEAR ME OUT. School got like REALLY fucking busy and I have to write like a whole bunch of papers and I have the never-finishes-everything condition so it was tough. But here I am!
> 
> Also yeah, I kind of ship Horlet. Is that the ship name? Horlet? Hamatio? Is there an AO3 archive of Horlet fics?? I'm going to have to do some research now. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me through this story! I love and adore every single one of you for reading, for Kudos-ing, for commenting <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! Let me know what you think!
> 
> I now have a tumblr for updates on stories and story ideas! Maybe I'll even write some prompts people toss at me?? Give me a follow (and I'll follow back, since as of now, I have like no tumblr friends)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr!](https://silky-scarlet-ribbons.tumblr.com/)


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